


Brooklyn, Mississippi

by ThisChairIsMyHomeNow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, College, Evangelical Christianity is a cult btw, Faulkner is rolling over in his grave, Forehead Kisses, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bucky Barnes, I speak from experience unfortunately, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, LOL NOT REALLY SOUTHERN GOTHIC, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, Religious Fundamentalism as Brainwashing, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Repression, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Southern Gothic, The South is a strange place, WIP STATUS: COMPLETE, at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 48,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisChairIsMyHomeNow/pseuds/ThisChairIsMyHomeNow
Summary: Steve Rogers was trailer trash—or at least that’s what Brock Rumlow’s gang called him just before they pushed him into Cypress Creek and tore off running with their big dumb heads thrown back, laughing fit to pee themselves.Steve may have been trailer trash, but he was also a spitfire and tough as nails; he gave swimming his best shot and even managed to stay afloat for a hot minute, bobbing up and down like a lure before his shock of blonde hair went under the muddy water with the type of finality that inspired Bucky Barnes to haul ass across an empty baseball field to leap in after him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is a work of fiction (duh) but plenty of it is real. Brooklyn is an actual city in Mississippi, although I’ve taken liberties with it. You may be tempted to think that the religious elements are a wild fabrication on my part. But that shit? I WISH I were making it up.
> 
> P.S. Steve and Bucky are just middle schoolers in this first chapter, but they're college age for the rest of the story!

_In the Beginning_

  
  
Steve Rogers was trailer trash—or at least that’s what Brock Rumlow’s gang called him just before they pushed Steve into Cypress Creek and tore off running with their big dumb heads thrown back, laughing fit to pee themselves.

Steve may have been trailer trash, not to mention the scrawniest 11 year old alive, but wouldn’t you know he was also a spitfire and tough as nails; he gave swimming his best shot and even managed to stay afloat for a hot minute, bobbing up and down like a lure before his shock of blonde hair went under the muddy water with the type of finality that inspired Bucky Barnes to haul ass across an empty baseball field to leap in after him.

The water was surprisingly cold for July evening, which was all right. Bucky was already sweaty enough from running that it felt downright refreshing, except that he had too much adrenaline pumping in his veins to really appreciate it, what with the drowning person in front of him and all. With a splash, he scooped Steve into his arms and dragged him to the creek’s edge and laid him out on the shore.

Then he waited.

When Steve didn’t cough up water like in the movies Bucky started to panic a little.

He moved in real close, intently studying Steve’s chest for movement like there might be a quiz later. Sure enough, thank the Lord, thank you Jesus—there was a tiny rise and fall. Up, down. Up, down. He was alive, at least, but likely passed out from all the struggle and exertion. Steve’s lungs were about as sturdy as a brown paper bag.

Bucky didn’t know Steve all that well, seeing as they were a grade apart technically and a world apart socially, but Bucky knew about those lungs. Everybody at school talked about Wheezy Steve and his noodle arms and his gimpy walk. It always seemed a bit unfair to hold someone’s health (or lack thereof) against them. Steve couldn’t help being shrimpy anymore than Bucky could help being the tallest, fastest boy in 7th grade.

They were opposites in a lot of ways.

Here was another way: Steve and his momma didn’t go to church but for Easter and Christmas and they went to a Catholic church when they did. But Bucky’s family went to church three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday evening.

When Bucky was little his family was Methodist, but then his dad and mom started fighting a lot, and their solution was To Get Right With The Lord and join a non-denominational church and have three more children: John, Mark, and Rebecca. Bucky’s momma quit her job at the local newspaper to tend to them, which according to Pastor was godly decision that The Lord would bless. Bless, he did, because Bucky’s daddy made more money now than most other dads in Forrest County. His family lived in a five bedroom house on one of the nicest streets in Brooklyn.

Steve lived in a trailer park, even though his mom was a nurse. The nurses who worked up Hattiesburg at the hospital made decent money, but Steve’s momma was a nurse for old people in town doing house calls and changing bed pans and helping people bathe and all that. So she didn’t earn as much, plus most of it went to pay for Steve’s medical bills. Or so Bucky’s momma said. Bucky’s momma used to talk about world events and books she liked, but now she mostly talked about other people’s problems with her church friends.

Bucky looked at a very soaked and muddy Steve and felt a pang of something—pity, probably. He’d never known of anybody with so many problems. No daddy, no money, no friends, bad health, bad grades, and a bad temper. Bucky couldn’t blame him for that last one. He’d be angry too if people kept tossing him into rivers.

Bucky _was_ angry, he realized. His fists were clenched like he was ready to pummel Brock Rumlow right then and there. Bucky’d always been neutral about Brock’s behavior. That seemed criminal now, considering Brock had just about haphazardly _murdered_ Steve. And for what? Sure, Steve could get mouthy and obnoxious, but only when provoked and agitated; he was usually the one to hold the door for people even though it was physically draining for him; Bucky heard a rumor that Steve had punched one of Brock’s goon friends right on the nose for calling a teacher fat; Steve mostly just wanted to be left alone to draw his pictures, which was probably what he’d been doing by this creek in the first place, judging from the soggy papers strewn everywhere. Steve was a pretty good kid despite a lot of bad in his life. That counts for something. It’s easy to be good when you’ve had it good. But it’s harder when life has given you nothing but trouble.

It wasn’t pity he felt for Steve. It was sort of the opposite of pity, really. It was...admiration. To his horror there was a little bit of a lump in his throat now. He’d known Steve most of his life and had never had a legitimate conversation with him and he could’ve _died_ today.

_Wake up, Steve._

Should he call for help?

It was getting late. Bucky was supposed to be home at dusk. That was the rule in his house. When the fireflies start flickering, that means it’s time to head home. Well, the fireflies were out in full golden force now, practically making a halo around Steve’s sleepy looking face. Bucky could leave him here to wake up on his own, but that seemed extraordinarily un-neighborly and they’d just talked about Mark 12:30-31 in church this past Sunday.

Instead Bucky reached out and shook Steve’s nearest shoulder. “Wake up, Steve.”

He said it simply and clearly, like a command, which was funny because he knew Steve hated bein’ bossed around. But Bucky said it boldly anyway, like in the Bible stories when a miracle was gonna happen. He thought of Lazarus in the tomb being called forth and then felt guilty for it. If Steve was Lazarus in the story then that made Bucky _Jesus_ and that seemed awful blasphemous. Last thing the situation needed was for lighting to strike.

“Wake up,” he said again.

 _Should_ he pray for Steve? He thought about all those prayer meetings he’d been dragged to by his parents, the ones where people started whoopin and hollerin in the aisles, or passing out at the front. It made Bucky uncomfortable, but he had to play along or he might get a concerned talkin’-to from the pastor or worse, his dad. Bucky’s daddy said all sickness and pain exists because of the Fall of Man, when sin entered the world because Eve ate the apple in the Garden of Eden. Every living person on earth was bound for eternal hellfire unless they repented of their sins and accepted Jesus Christ as their Personal Lord and Savior and became a Christian and a soldier in the Army of God. Bucky always had to bite back a question about all of this: if God is all powerful, why didn’t he just keep Eve from eating that apple in the Garden of Eden in the first place? Why even allow the apple to exist? God was downright confusing, especially since everybody seemed to have different rules for him depending on which kind of church you attended.

Bucky had his own secret ideas about God.

He tried not think about it much, except when he was scared, or utterly out of a plan, like right now. They’re weren’t really his rules—they were his grandma’s. His grandma called him Jimmy but nobody else called him that and now nobody else _does_ , because she passed away a few years ago and Bucky still cried about it sometimes, when his dad wasn’t around to scold him for it and tell him men are called to be Fearless Leaders or whatever the hell.

 _“Jimmy boy,”_ his grandma would say, _“Every living thing is a tiny piece of God, including you, and don’t you forget it.”_

Bucky liked this idea, because it was simple, and because it made him feel less alone when he was sitting all by himself in the woods, or in his room, or in a crowded place. Every living thing was a little piece of God. So everything and everybody was connected. And if people didn’t _act_ like they carried that little piece of God inside of them, it’s just because they forgot. So Grandma said we had to remind each other.

Bucky’s hands felt strangely warm when he placed them on Steve’s shoulders again. There were still fireflies sparkin’ up the air.

 

“Wake up, Steve.”

 

Steve’s eyes flew open.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8 years later

_8 years later_

 

It’s about a half-mile hike down a gravel road to get to the cluster of mailboxes in Steve’s trailer park.

Steve’s back is aggravating him again today, but he decides to make the trek anyway, because the potential reward will be worth it, not to mention a free clinic doctor recently told him a little exercise would be good for the ailments in his mind.

Of course, a stroll through Oak Lane isn’t exactly going to lift anybody’s mood, what with the general disarray of the place. It has far more broken down cars and trash-littered lawns than oak trees. Or any kinda tree. Most of the residents have fallen into hard times in recent years, which is really saying something for a place that only half-survived Hurricane Katrina. The crash of ‘08 hit most of Brooklyn pretty hard. Not because of faulty home loans exactly—hardly anybody out in this neck of the county had those to begin with—but the economy is an ecosystem of sorts and money was drying up all over the place. Shops closed up and daycare centers shut down and fewer tourists came around to the national forests nearby. Plenty of folks left for public housing in Hattiesburg. A few even went to go live in the woods.  

It hasn’t quite gotten to that point for Steve, although he did have to stop using the wall unit to save money on the electric bill, and he does eat more squirrel and rabbit stew than he cared to admit to anyone. He can get bread from the Dollar General and peaches from roadside stands but good meat is a little trickier to manage. He has to drive pretty far out to get to a real grocery store and gas money isn’t always plentiful enough. Sometimes his neighbor sells deer meat (even when it’s not open season) but mostly Steve relies on his .22 for protein. Thank God for that goddamn gun. Bucky gave it to him for his birthday so many years ago, thinking Steve would just use it to shoot at old soup cans. And isn’t that just like Bucky: saving Steve’s life with barely a thought, over and over again.

Or at least that’s how Bucky _usually_ is. Things are weird right now with all the distance.  Steve’s mind wanders to the last time he saw Buck’s face. It was three months ago, just before Bucky shipped out again on another tour of so-called duty. Before that, it was six months, the longest they’ve ever been apart. Steve tries his best to be supportive but the truth is that he’s tired of being left behind. Especially here of all places.

It’s Saturday afternoon, so a few of Steve’s neighbors are out tinkering with their cars or just shooting the breeze in worn out lawn chairs. “Morning, Steve,” Dum Dum Dugan calls out from his porch, even though it is no longer morning. Dum Dum is pot-bellied, mustached, 70-something years old, and still a tad drunk from last night. He’s also the best marksman Steve’s ever known. Steve assumes it was due to Dum Dum’s time in Vietnam.

“Hey Dummy. Got any more venison in that back fridge to sell me?”

“Fresh out, son,” Dum Dum says kindly, before leaning forward in his chair to spit a little chaw into the dying, fried grass. “Hope to bag another tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know when it’s processed.”

“Thanks.”

“No charge this time—gotta fatten you up for winter.”

Steve laughs. “It ain’t even close to winter.”

“Well, you got a lotta fattening up to do is all.”

Dugan’s always been this way, ever since Steve was a kid, and especially since Steve’s mom died a few years ago. He jokes about Steve’s small frame, but mostly as a front to take care of him. Steve likes to think of himself as the kind of person who doesn’t need looking out for anymore, since he’s 19 years old. Not drinkin’ age just yet, but fully grown at an almost unexpected 5’7 and gainfully employed at Christ is King of the Universe Hardware Store. Sometimes he sells car parts. Sometimes, on a good day, he gets to draw the signs and fliers. Most days he’s forced to listen to his boss rant about the second coming of Jesus (“Soon!”). Either way the gig pays _most_ of his bills.

“Lemme pay you half-price at least,” Steve says, because he’s not a charity case but he really could use the discount. Winter’s not coming, but he could use more ammo all the same.

“Okay okay, git on now.”

“See ya,” Steve says with a wave, before heading onward down the road.

He’s not heavy but the gravel still crunches and clangs underneath his feet, same way it did since he was a kid here. Same way it will forever—until he can find a way out.

Brooklyn, Mississippi is about an hour north of Gulfport. If Steve takes highway 49 and speeds a little he can be at the beach in less than an hour, or what’s left of the beach anyway. It’s still a mess after Hurricane Katrina. So many years after that goddamn storm hit and people out in Pass Christian and Longbeach are still living in tent cities. Steve will never forget the terror and the sweat of that late August storm. Despite being 50 miles inland, the winds and the rains still took their toll on the landscape and most everybody’s pocket books. Steve and his Ma rode it out at the Barnes’ house. He remembers huddling around an old weather radio in Bucky’s room, just the two of them. They’d lit candles since the power went out. Later in the middle of the night, Steve climbed from his sleeping bag into Bucky’s twin bed and held on for dear life, like the roof might blow off at any moment and take them with it. And Bucky held him back just as tightly, even though they were tough kids and too cool to be scared. Well, Bucky was too cool. Steve has never been cool.

Steve is too artsy for the rednecks and too redneck for the artsy types who fled Brooklyn first chance they got. He’s not Christian enough for sort of Christians who live in southern Mississippi, but his faith is strong enough to make the cynics uncomfortable. He’s too worldly to hang with most of the townies now, but not smart enough to get into the colleges he used to yearn to attend. Being a high school drop out didn’t exactly look great on his admission essays, even with the GED and the (very true) sob story about missing too many days from being sick all the damn time.

Steve is too sick, yet not sick enough. The doctors treat his asthma and mild scoliosis just fine, but there’s something else wrong, something persistent and energy-sucking and unseen. Nobody seems to be able to help with _that._ His mom used to take him to the fanciest doctors she could afford and most of them said Steve was just depressed and offered some pills. She demanded they test for Lyme disease at least, but that came back negative. “We’ll figure it out,” she would always assure. But Steve’s seen his secret diagnosis in eyes of just about every doctor he’s ever visited: he’s just a runt. He’s a runt who is stuck in Brooklyn. He’s been living in limbo for a long time, although that might be about to change.

When he gets to the mailboxes at the end of the road his heart starts thumping fast. But the exercise ain’t the cause. It’s just that his _whole life_ might be about to shift completely, depending on a couple of pieces of paper that are hopefully waiting for him. When he turns the key on his box he realizes his hands are shaking.

There are two letters.

He tears open the first flimsy envelope so quickly he almost rips the letter itself.

 

* * *

To Mr. Rogers:

We regret to inform you that due to health concerns, we are (once again) unable to accept your applications to Global Expeditions. Our cadets are called to serve in conditions that would likely put you at medical risk. Also, we require that all missionaries agree with our statement of faith regarding Biblical inerrancy and infallibility and other social issues, which you have openly and repeatedly challenged in your admissions essays.

While we appreciate your enthusiasm and determination to help the world, we do not feel like the appropriate organization for you at this time.   

Blessings,

TEEN MANIA MINISTRIES INTERNATIONAL

_Reach the Youth. Change the Nations._

22392 FM 16W Garden Valley, TX 75771

* * *

 

 

Steve reads and re-reads the letter a few times, letting it sink in. Another _no._

Of course it’s another no. He shouldn’t be remotely surprised or disappointed. All the same, it stings. Steve tamps down his anger and resists the childish urge to crumple up the paper by focusing on the next letter, the one that matters more.

 

_Dear Steve,_

_Just got back to headquarters after a month in Guatemala. I saw a volcano! No lava though. We were pretty far from it. I could go on and on about it but I’ll skip it since I know what you really want to know._

_No, I can’t come home anytime soon. Gotta get ready for the next trip. Headed to Kenya soon. Can you believe that? Africa. I think we’re going to build a school and maybe teach some English. The team leaders are still kinda weird about us using our phones but I think I’ll have internet access sometimes. Email’s probably the best way to reach me going forward and I’ll check it when I can. Please don’t be sore about it, okay?_

_I know you’re still trying to get in, by the way. It’s not that I don’t want you out here but trust me, it’s for the best that you’re not. Not sure you’d get along so well with the team or the leaders. I know how much you hate following orders. Besides, most days it’s nothing but manual labor and I wouldn’t want you keeling over in the sun. I think we’re both where we are supposed to be._

_Sincerely,_

_Bucky_

  


By the time Steve hauls himself all the way back to his house he can no longer resist falling apart. He’s too tired to be fully furious so he crumples into a ball on his worn out couch instead of throwin’ shit. At first—when Bucky first left—he thought he was imagining it, that he was just being paranoid or overly sensitive. But there’s no denying it now: Steve doesn’t fit into Bucky’s new life.

Bucky’s new life is full of people who think Steve is a medically defective heretic. Somebody who didn’t pray hard enough for his own healing, probably. Bucky’s world is full of judgy assholes.

When did it happen? The shift? Because Bucky’s religious beliefs went from warm and curious to unrecognizably strict and pedantic and he can’t even pinpoint when exactly. Bucky didn’t used to buy into his church’s teachings, especially not all that fire and brimstone bullshit. He even made fun of it plenty of times when Steve was the only one around.

But then without even telling Steve first, Bucky enlisted as a missionary instead of going off to college. His parents were thrilled that their son was avoiding the godless liberal world of academia. Now it was all about spreading the Word of God.

Steve is pissed off that he even bothered trying to get into that stupid organization in the first place. Sure, the idea of world travel was exciting and helping those less fortunate was great and all, but he’s angry at himself for attempting to get in; he doesn’t usually make compromises like that. Any decision that would make Mr. and Mrs. Barnes happy is the _opposite_ of what he wants to do.

He and Bucky used to have that in common. They used to live in their own little world together. They used to share a faith. _That_ faith could move mountains. Or even bring a soul out of the water and back from the dead. That faith could put air in Steve’s lungs.

The only god Steve believes in is the one Bucky used to love, back when they were 12 and 13 and content to do nothing more than climb those big live oak trees over by the schoolyard or catch fireflies in a jar. They could fill a big old Mason jar full of them and use it to light the way home. The truest act of worship Steve knows is when they’d set those bugs free again at the end of the night. They’d come pouring out of the glass in a fit of buzzing and sparks.

What he wouldn’t give for another summer night like that. He knows childhood friends grow apart sometimes, but he had hoped they would be different from the rest.

Steve sits back up and rubs at his eyes. He could lie here and grieve the past until he drowns in it, but it won’t help him figure out what to do next. All he knows is that he needs a new plan and that chasing after Bucky ain’t an option anymore. Steve would go to the ends of the earth for him if he ever needed help, but their day-to-day lives just don’t revolve around each other anymore. It’s been like a slow death but Steve must accept it. Some small part of him has been expecting this all along. Because why did a well-to-do charmer like James Buchanan Barnes ever want to hang out with white trash like him in the first place?

He tries to reel those kind of thoughts back in and calm himself down. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe Bucky just needs to get something out of his system and he’ll come back with lots of stories about all those Bible-thumping loons. Bucky will see through it sooner or later. Maybe this is just a phase Steve has to wait out. Please let it be just a phase.

Despite all his fears, Steve still has hope. Angry, defiant, unyielding hope that things could go back to the way they were between them. Their friendship has changed, there’s no denying it. But it could change again.

In the meantime: he is on his own.

 

 

Well, maybe not totally on his own—there’s a knock at the door. It’s Dum Dum. Steve’s not sure how long he’s been sitting here ruminating, but he gets a headrush when he stands to open the door.

“Don’t mean to bother you or nothing, but I thought you could use this,” he says, holding out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He must’ve seen Steve’s ashen face when Steve was ploding back home.

Steve accepts the gift, even though he knows drinking his problems away probably isn’t the best way to deal with them, especially when you’re a lightweight already prone to nausea all on your own.

“Thanks, Mr. Dugan.”

“You ain’t called me that since you were a kid.”

“You haven’t knocked on my door and gave me a present since I was a kid,” Steve says. “Although this is certainly a different kind of present.”

“Just don’t go telling nobody I gave it to ya,” he adds, looking at his feet. “And don’t go drinkin too much at once.”

“Maybe it’ll fatten me up,” Steve jokes.

“Yeah, I reckon,” Dum Dum laughs, smoothing a hand over his beer gut. “You get that letter you were hoping for? From those missionaries?”

“Got the letter. Wasn’t what I was hoping for.”

Dum just chews his lip for a minute and leans into the doorway. “Yeah, I guessed so by the looks of ya. Back to square one?”

“I’ll figure something else out...Marty’s been talking about promoting me. So that’s something I guess.”

“That what you want?”

“Hell no. But it is what it is. For now anyway.”

“Let’s say money ain’t no concern. No limits. What would you do?”

“Aw, Christ. I dunno anymore. Bucky and I used to talk about joining the Peace Corps and seeing the world.”

“Well do it.”

“Need a college degree first. Believe me—I tried to get in anyway. Did you know forging a college diploma is bad idea?”

“You’re a mess, Rogers.”

“I applied for EMT school too but I can’t pass the damn weight lift test. Firefighters can’t take me either. Obviously. I dunno, Dum. I just wanna do some good in this world but the world won’t fucking _let me_.”

“What about those drawings of yours?”

“What about ‘em?”

“They do some good, don’t they? If you’d ever let anybody _see them_.”

“Art ain’t exactly saving anybody’s life.”

“Naw, bullshit. I got an Army buddy who almost put a gun in his mouth last year. Planned it out and everything. You know what changed his mind? His grandkid took him to this swanky museum. He took one look at some painting of a lily pond and decided to stay put on this earth.”

“Jesus.”

“All I’m saying is there’s more than one way to do some good in this world, is all.”

Steve really isn’t sure what to say to that.

“Anyway,” Dum Dum says, “Just wanted to stop by.” He then, quite bizarrely, pulls out his wallet and hands him a $100 bill. “You’re too young to be this worn down all the time. Go have some fun.”

“...What?”

“It’s gonna be Saturday night in a few hours. Go have some fun, okay? Stay out all night. It’s the end of summer and you’re goddamn nineteen years old. You can come back here and try to figure out your whole life later. Go have some fun.”

“Thanks,” Steve croaks. He feels overwhelmed. “But I can’t—”

“Oh, I don’t wanna hear it. You’re taking the money. And don’t you dare spend it on anything practical. Get yourself a lap dance or a steak dinner or both, whatever. Just get out of this house. You never know what could happen.”

“Uh—okay.”

Dum Dum claps him on the shoulder and then pulls him into what has to be the most awkward hug imaginable. “Gotta keep on keepin on,” he says.

“Thanks. Thanks so much,” Steve manages to muffle into Dugan’s shoulder. And just like that, Dum Dum walks away into the hot afternoon sun.

  


*

 

When Steve drives out of Oak Lane, he has every intention of heading toward Gulfport, even though he’s been there a thousand times and knows all he’s gonna do there is bum around and miss Bucky and maybe stick his feet into the water and attempt to draw a few seagulls. But when he passes the Piggly Wiggly down past Fruitland Park, something about that dumb fucking artless logo tugs him toward highway 59 instead; before he knows it, he’s well on his way to New Orleans. Why the hell not?

Steve has been to New Orleans before, but only once, and it was practically a decade ago on a field trip. He remembers there being art everywhere. Over the years, he’s wanted to come back with Bucky—it’s only about two hours away from Brooklyn. But Bucky’s parents always objected to their schemes. New Orleans is a den of sin, didn’t you know?

Well. Maybe he wants to do some sinning.

He won’t pay for sex on principle, but the thought does occur to him that he has the option, if he wanted to blow his whole budget for this impromptu trip and more, that is. Then the horrifying dilemma presents itself and almost knocks the wind out of him: if he were 100% sure that no one (especially Bucky) would ever find out, would he pay for sex with woman or with a man? It’s an entirely hypothetical situation but Steve still doesn’t really have an answer and it scares him.

He thinks about men a lot. But he assures himself that it’s not a big deal and that he’s just lonely and hormonal and confused on account of the fact girls never pay him much attention. Bucky’s stupidass pastor said men only turn out gay if their daddys aren’t around. He said gay men are just trying to heal that absence in the wrong way. That line of thinking made Steve uncomfortable for a long time, because he did fit the profile: no daddy. Not to mention all the drawing and painting and general lack of athletic ability. But ultimately Steve took comfort in the fact that seeing a naked girl in porn made his dick just as hard as seeing a naked man. And then he got to thinking that maybe everybody under the right circumstances liked both and was just lying about it because of the Bible.

It was a very confusing topic.

Bucky couldn’t shut up about girls growing up. He was never without a girlfriend and even though he was admently committed to waiting until marriage to have sex, he had enough close calls that his virginity was definitely only technical. Sometimes he got torn up about it and went to church and prayed and promised to turn over a new, chaste leaf. But then sure enough a few weeks later he’d be confessing to Steve that some girl had given him a handjob at the youth group lock-in. Steve was never surprised by this. Bucky was—Bucky _is_ —impossibly wonderful. And popular and tall and good looking and it made Steve horribly jealous. He would never have the options Bucky has. Bucky could already be married with a kid on the way if he weren’t wandering around Africa. Girls practically threw themselves at him. Steve _hated_ it, hated how—

Christ, enough about Bucky. Steve tries to focus on the road.

 

By the time he hits the I-10 bridge he’s got a reckless itch under his skin, the kind that usually leads to a fist fight later, although getting arrested is not high on his list of things to do, seeing as he’s got nobody to bail him out these days except Dum Dum; that seems like an awful way to thank someone for $100.

$100 is a generous chunk of change, but it won’t last long out here, so Steve knows he’ll have to pace himself. He avoids Bourbon Street because of the barfing tourists. They aren’t barfing yet, but they will be once the sun goes down. It’s easier to find parking on Frenchmen Street anyway.

First order of business is taking a nice long drink of whiskey from the bottle Dum Dum gave him and placing it back into the trunk of his car. There’s no way his scrawny ass is going to escape being carded out here, plus it saves money. Steve Rogers: always thinking like a poor person.

There’s a jazz band blaring from a restaurant down the street so he makes his way over and ducks in to listen and orders crawfish etouffee from a waitress who winks at him. It’s not true flirtation and Steve knows it. He can tell when a woman is being nice because they think he’s cute in the same way small animals are cute; he tips her extra all the same.

Feeling something close to buzzed, he buys some fancy beignets from a street vendor but ends up giving them to a homeless man about three steps later, along with $20. After that he walks back over to his car for another drink and to grab his sketchbook. The best souvenir he can bring home from this trip is his own impression of the place in pen and ink.

He just needs to find the right spot.

Washington Square is crowded as all get out this evening, full of vendors and booths. With a smile Steve realizes he must’ve stumbled upon some kind of art festival.

He walks several laps just to take all the color and noise in, ignoring the fatigue he can feel settling into his back. He quickly forks over way more money than he should on some nice, new pens.

Another lap. He wishes he could buy every single painting. But the price tags. Ouch.

It’s at this moment he realizes he’s out of money.

It’s not just that the $100 is gone. He checks his phone to discover that his bank balance is $7.38.

How the hell was he going to get home?

He has enough gas to get him to about as far as Pearl River, tops. The only solution he can think of is to return the pens.

But he doesn’t want to return the pens.

 

Another idea occurs to him.

 

There’s an unoccupied booth to his left.

  


*

 

“Do you go to school here in the city? At NOAFA?” asks an older, bespectacled man in a modest suit.

Steve gulps from behind his commandeered booth. He’s so bad at lying. “Uh—yeah.”

“Ah, wonderful,” the man says, “I know some of the faculty over there. Who is your advisor?”

Shit.

“Johnson,” Steve invents.

“Hm.” The man narrows his eyes but then softens. “These are quite good.”

“Thanks. Price is negotiable.”

Steve would give this man a drawing for free to get him to stop asking him questions. Taking up space here without registration is nothing short of theft and he’d hate to lose all the money he just made. Because he has, miraculously and unexpectedly, made money.

Turning a profit from his work feels completely unreal. Especially since most of his subject matter is trailer park life. Apparently this has a certain appeal to wealthy hipsters because he’s sold ten drawings at $25 a pop. Gently ripped right out of his damn sketchbook. Two of them were of Dum Dum standing on his porch holding a beer. What a world. Rich people are somethin’ else. ( _“So much character! Southern Americana. Tiny homes are all the rage.”)_

“Interesting choice of subject matter,” the man says.

“Home sweet home.”

“Where are you from?”

“Just a small town in Mississippi. How bout you?”

“Los Angeles. Germany long before that.”

Well, that explains the funny accent. “So, uh. What brings you all the way from California to New Orleans?” Steve asks.

“I’m here for the festival. Sort of an old tradition for me. Unfortunately, my flight was delayed and I’m late. And it appears someone has stolen my spot.”

In the first week that Steve had his driver’s license, he almost hit a deer. He remembers the look on that poor dumb thing’s face when the headlights hit it. He realizes he must be making the exact same expression right now.

“Jeez, I’m sorry. I uh—I came to town on a whim and I bought some pens but then I ran out of money for trip home and I just—I’ll pay you—”

“Relax,” the man says, suppressing a laugh. He looks nothing but amused now. “I’m not mad. In fact, I’m rather pleased to have found you. What's your name?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“I’m Dr. Abraham Erskine,” he says, extending a hand to shake. “I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. This is my first WIP and it's VERY SCARY posting when I don't have the whole thing written out first, yikes - but I do have the major bits planned and I'm going to try my damnedest to post each week. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "—what’s this news of yours?”
> 
> “Well, the short version is that I did something stupid but it worked out,” Steve says.
> 
> “Story of your life, kid.”

The drive from New Orleans back to Brooklyn goes by in a dreamlike flash of late night truck stops and small town traffic lights.  Steve can’t wipe the big dumb grin off his face, even though he’s exhausted and the pain in his back is spreading like kudzu.

When he pulls into his gravel driveway around 3AM, he’s greeted by a small family of raccoons picking through his trash for a feast. There’s pop-tart wrappers and apple cores strewn everywhere. Home sweet home—but not for much longer.

“Shoo,” he hisses at the varmints, but he isn’t really all that mad; he can’t be mad about anything right now—he’s too damn excited. He could wake up the whole neighborhood with rejoicing and maybe he would if he didn’t know making a racket at this hour would most definitely result in someone pulling a shotgun on him. So instead he goes inside and manages some restless sleep before showering and throwing on fresh clothes and hiking over to Dum Dum’s place in the dawn light with coffee on his mind.

It’s still entirely too early to be knocking on Dum Dum’s door, but Steve knocks anyway, softly as he can to avoid spooking him. He’s gotta tell _someone_ what’s going on. This is the exact sort of thing he’d usually gush about to Bucky, but that doesn’t seem like an option anymore. So it’s either Dum Dum or those damn raccoons.

Steve can see lights flicking on inside Dum Dum’s trailer just before Dum Dum yanks open the door. His hair is so wild, Steve can’t help but think of a desert-wandering John the Baptist.

“Your house better be on fire, boy,” Dum Dum says. He’s wearing tighty whities and a wife beater that somehow manages to cover his entire beer belly. In the partial darkness it looks like a dainty cotton one-piece.

“I’m so sorry—I would’ve waited for sunup but I ain’t got much time left,” Steve spills.

“Christ, ya dying on me?”

“No, no. Nothing like that—I got good news. Real good. So good I’m about to _burst_.”

“Well’re ya gonna tell me or just make me stand here nekked as a jaybird?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “How bout I put on some coffee while you put on a robe and _then_ I’ll tell the story.”

Dum nods gruffly and walks away, leaving the flimsy, composite-wood door wide open. Steve slips inside and heads toward the cabinet where he knows Dum keeps a bulk size canister of Folgers from Sam’s Club. By the time the carafe is full, Dum reemerges from his room in head-to-toe camo gear. “I was goin hunting this mornin anyway,” he offhandedly explains before plopping down at the table.

Steve clinks around the kitchen and hands Dum a mug before filling one of his own and taking a seat across from him. “Sorry again for waking you up.”

“I’m just glad you weren’t the po-lice.”

Steve’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why would the police show up here?”

“Ah, nevermind, nevermind—what’s this news of yours?”

“Well, the short version is that I did something stupid but it worked out.”

“Story of your life, kid.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Anyway: the long version is that I went out to New Orleans with that hundred dollars you gave me.”

“Did you wake me up just to tell me you got laid? I’m real proud but that’s more of an afternoon story.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Okay, okay—go on. Tell the damn story.”

Steve hops up to pour himself a second cup of coffee. “So New Orleans was amazing but I ran out of money for the trip home. And I’m freaking out thinkin I’m gonna have to bum a ride from a freezer truck again like me and Bucky did after that baseball game up in Jackson. Wasn’t looking forward to that. Then I get this wild idea to sell some of my drawings at this art festival going on. But of course I wasn’t invited to the festival and I had to steal someone’s spot.”

“That’s my boy,” Dum Dum beams.

“Well, the someone I stole from showed up later. But instead of tearing me a new one, he offered me a full scholarship to his art school in Los Angeles.”

Dum Dum chokes on his coffee. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s the exact same face I made when he said it.”

“So he just, what? Gave you one free ticket to college? Just like that?”

“More or less. He runs the place. I guess he can do whatever he wants with it.”

“Well, if anybody deserves it, it’s you, but I ain’t never heard of anything like that. Ain’t sure I trust no _Californian_.”

“I can barely believe it either,” Steve says. “I thought he was messing with me, or maybe it was some kinda scam. But it’s legit. I looked it up and the school is real. I really am going to college.”

“In _California_ ,” Dum Dum says. “That’s a whole ‘nother planet over there. The cars have plugs. It’s like traveling to the future. I’ll be damned.”

“I asked this guy why he was being so generous, and he said it wasn’t generosity, because I would make the school look good. He said I was some kind of prodigy.”

“Well— _that_ I do believe.”

“You and Bucky are pretty much the only people who I ever really let see my work. Well, and Ma of course. But I thought ya’ll were just being nice about how good it was all this time. Maybe I should listen to you more often.”

“Say that again.”

“Ain’t gonna.”

Dum Dum erupts into a fit of laughter and smoker’s cough for a second. “Christ on a cracker, this really is good news. You’ll finally be outta my hair.”

“So you ain’t sore at me for leaving?”

“Sore? Been praying you’d find your way out here since your momma died, God rest her.”

That was a relief to hear. If Steve could count on anyone to support his hairbrained schemes to fly the coop, it was Dum Dum. Yet Steve still feels guilty for springing this on him. “None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you, you know,” Steve says.

“Oh hell, save the sentimental shit for when you’re actually leaving. How long you got?”

“Well, that’s the craziest part. I could wait til next month when classes start, but Dr. Erskine said the sooner the better if I want to meet the faculty, get adjusted, all that. He got on the phone and pulled all these strings and said the earliest flight he could get me on was one week from today.”

“That ain’t much time to pack.”

“Actually,” Steve says a little sheepishly, “I’m already mostly packed.”

Dum Dum nods. “Walking by faith, not sight, huh? You really were planning on those damn missionaries saying yes.”

“Something like that.”

What Steve doesn’t tell Dum Dum is that he’s been packed and ready to go for _years_. He’s been packed since...

 

Well, it hurts to think about.

 Steve’s momma had died in the springtime. The courts were thinking about sticking Steve in a foster home but Steve argued up a storm about already being capable of taking care of himself, what with the GED and the job and all. In the end, the state let him stay so long as Dum Dum and a social worker kept checking in. Looking back, Steve’s not sure about the legality of it all. He wonders if the real problem was that no foster homes were actually available, or at least none that would take a teenager with health problems. What else were they gonna do with him?

But that’s not the time Steve packed up the house.

Bucky fought with his parents a lot after Steve’s momma died. Bucky called his parents lousy hypocrites. He called them Pharisees right to their faces. He cited Matthew 23:27. He wanted Steve to come live with them but the rest of Barnes family wouldn’t budge on the subject.

“I don’t need their charity, Buck. It’s okay.”

“But it’s the _principle_ of the matter. Oh God—I sound like _you_.”

 But that’s still not the time Steve packed up the house.

The summer after Steve’s momma died was the closest he and Bucky had ever been. Bucky’d graduated that May and was planning on going to Ole Miss in the fall. That summer was supposed to be a last hurrah of sorts. 

Steve was still in the throes of grief, but Bucky made it better. Bucky would cook for him, even cry with him. He’d stay over at the trailer for days or even weeks at a time, just watching TV shows with him. They trespassed in Bucky’s neighbor’s pool. They climbed rooftops to watch baseball games and drove out to the beach every chance they got. They celebrated Steve’s 17th birthday by sneaking beers and launching bottle rockets. And one morning, when they were just lying around in their pajamas, drinking coffee and reading books, all settled in on the couch, Bucky looked up and said, “Who needs college—let’s just do this for the rest of our lives.”   

Steve rolled his eyes, thinking it was a joke. But then Bucky said, “You know, we could move anywhere. Where do you wanna move?”

“You have to go to college.”

“Why? You’re not.”

“I’m _different_ than you. You’re the type of person who goes to college.”  

“You can still come with me. I don’t have to live in a dorm. We’ll get an apartment.”

“Jesus, you’re serious.”

“I’m really fucking serious.”

“You must be if you’re swearing. You never swear.”

“I can’t swear around anybody except you. Why do you think I want us to get our own fucking apartment?”

“Ah, well then. That’s fucking settled then,” Steve had said.   

And _that_ was the time Steve packed up the house. Yet by the time Fall rolled around, their plans had dissolved and Bucky was headed off to what he called basic training. Every day spent in the trailer since has felt like pressing on a bruise. He’s been living out of boxes, holding on to hope.

 Something in Steve’s face must’ve given him away, because Dum Dum says, “Ya need a drink or something?”

“It’s 6:30 in the morning.”

“4:30 in Los Angeles. That’s still party time.”

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“Speaking of parties—”

“Oh Lord, no—”

“Do I got time to throw you a going away party?”

“No.”

“I think I do.”

Steve shakes his head admonishingly. “Don’t you dare. This ain’t even really goodbye. I’ll probably be home in a few months for Christmas.”

“It won’t be the same, son. Trust me.”

“Brooklyn is not exactly known for changing its ways.”

“I’m telling ya,” Dum Dum says, a little more seriously than Steve is used to him sounding, “It won’t be the same. And it won’t be because Brooklyn’s changed. It’ll be you that’s changed and that’s alright. That’s a good thing. But take a moment and soak it all in, because there’s no turning back. There’s no coming home. Trust me on that one.”

And that brings Steve up short.  

“That how you felt? When you got back here?”

Dum just nods gruffly.

 When Steve was young enough to not know better, he asked Mr. Dugan if he killed anybody in the war. His mother shushed him and apologized profusely and Mr. Dugan just shook his head and said he didn’t talk about all that.

But then years later when he and Dum were changing the oil in Dum’s ‘94 Dodge Shadow, Dum turned to Steve and said, “They call me Dum Dum cause I got captured and pretended like I couldn’t talk or hear. Those commie bastards didn’t get no intel outta me.” Then he just went right back to fiddling with the car.

Steve feels a similar sense of hesitancy with his words now. What he wants to say is that going off to college is a helluva lot different than battling the Viet Cong.

But it’s like Steve said earlier: maybe he should listen to Dum more often.

“I don’t need a party, but maybe we could go to the diner one last time later.”

Dum perks up. “Yeah. Gotta fatten you up before California. They only eat bird food over there.”

Steve snorts into his empty coffee cup.

 

*

 

Later, when Steve is 35,000 feet up in the air on the first plane ride of his life, he’s glad he listened to Dum Dum’s advice. The week passed in a flurry of diner visits and to-do lists and visiting old childhood haunts, all the while wondering how a single place could be the source of both his greatest gifts and his deepest wounds.

He clutches the armrest and looks out the window and thinks about the time someone put roadkill in his locker. About how the smell of dead possum took weeks to lift. About all the times Brock Rumlow grabbed him, hit him, shoved him, kicked him. About hiding bruises from his Ma so she wouldn’t make a fuss. He thinks about what it feels like to almost drown. About what it’s like to fight for your life not because you want to live all that badly, but because you don’t want your Ma to have to pay for a funeral.

He thinks about waking up on the shore of Cypress Creek.

He thinks about fireflies in a jar.

He hates Brooklyn. He never wants to go back. He misses it so badly already he could burst into tears and never stop. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s getting himself into. He doesn’t know what the future holds.

All he knows is this: Mississippi looks different from 7 miles up in the sky.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I love you THANKS FOR READING I have a [Tumblr](http://thischairismyhomenow.tumblr.com)  
> if you're into that sort of thing and also here's a [Stucky story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373568/chapters/19182274) that is already complete if you're getting impatient also did I mention I love you???


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings: spiritual & emotional abuse, homophobia, internalized homophobia, STANDARD EVANGELICAL BULLSHIT**

Everything is bigger in Texas, especially the churches. 

Pastor Alexander Pierce sits alone in the pews of the vast chapel at Teen Mania Ministries headquarters. He says a quick prayer for guidance, because he has an appointment in his adjacent office in a few minutes about a topic that is sensitive in nature. At least here he can get a moment’s peace.

It is tiring to be responsible for so many misguided young lives. But responsible, he is. He is called by God to correct and lead the next generation.

He notices some dirt on the carpet as he stands to leave; it’s an unfortunate hazard of having a muddy boot camp facility next door.  Still, the interns should have caught it on one of their cleaning rounds. Are they so lazy as to leave the house of God a mess? He makes a note to issue some new orders on cleanliness.

At least his office is as pristine as ever. Well, except for the terrified looking cadet waiting in a chair in the corner.

James Barnes, or Bucky, as the other cadets call him, has visited Pierce's ministry office plenty of times, to chat about theology or report back after a mission trip, but never to be reprimanded.  The fear is at least a good sign, a sign that he understands the gravity of the situation. The Bible says the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

Pierce takes a seat behind his smooth mahogany desk and chooses his words carefully. He doesn’t want to yell, or scold, yet he cannot be too soft on this subject.

“Someone in your small group alerted me to a confession you made yesterday during prayer time,” Pierce says.

It’s not the first time this issue has come up within the organization, but it’s certainly the first time it’s affected a missionary of such a high caliber. Barnes is a rising star of sorts—charismatic, pragmatic, hardworking. He’s a leader, a poster boy, sharp as a tack, but now his future here is certainly in question, not to mention his very salvation. Pierce is honestly shocked and rather disgusted. But the love of God covers a multitude of sins. Pierce must demonstrate compassion.

“They said you admitted to struggling with lustful thoughts,” he says. “Toward other men. Your brothers in Christ. Is this true?”

Barnes looks at the floor and nods yes. His posture is shrunken and small, which is another good sign. His timidity is likely proof of his willingness to repent.

“How long have these thoughts plagued you?”

“Since I can remember,” Barnes says quietly. There’s remorse. That’s good. Very good.

“Well, it’s very brave of you to finally confess. That must be difficult to wrestle with alone. I wish you’d said something sooner—you could already be further along in the healing process.”

“I was afraid you’d kick me out,” Barnes admits, eyes still on the floor.

“We would only kick you out if you were unwilling to  _ change. _ ”

“I’ve…I’ve been trying.”

“I believe you. I believe you’ve been trying. But you were trying alone, and now you’ll have our help. You don’t have to face this alone anymore.”

It’s at this moment Barnes starts crying. It’s a pitiful thing, really, but it’s yet another good sign. He’s reached rock bottom and will be willing to do whatever it takes to overcome his affliction.

“What do I do?” Barnes chokes out.

“The first step is very simple. It is to admit your wretchedness. God looks upon our self-proclaimed good works as if they were filthy rags. You’re a good missionary, Barnes. You’ve built homes for the poor and taught the uneducated how to read. But none of that matters unless all of your heart, all of your desires, are surrendered to God. All sin is vile and abhorrent to God. I won’t sugarcoat it. All sin separates us from relationship with God. You must fully surrender yourself and ask yourself the question: Do you _ really  _ want to change?”

“Yes,” Barnes says. “More than anything.”

“It’s possible. Change is very possible. God has something incredible in store for you. Healing. Restoration. The hope of a family that reflects God’s design for every man and woman. I can’t promise you that the road to freedom will be easy, but it will be worth it. ”

Pierce can see it already: James with a beautiful wife and several rowdy children. If he can overcome this, he’ll no doubt rise to prominence. Radical healing inspires the masses and draws in new converts.  Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Every transformed life presents an opportunity to advance the Kingdom of God.

“Practically speaking,” Pierce continues, “I cannot in good conscience send you to Kenya while you’re in such a vulnerable state. You’ll need to remain here at headquarters for a season. We’ll give you an intern position. And don’t worry—you’ll have a private room. Given the circumstances, bunking with the other boys is not a good idea.  You’ll have daily counseling sessions with either me or another ministry elder. No exceptions. Together we’ll get to the root of the problem. God didn’t make you this way. Something’s gone wrong and we’ll going to fix it. Okay?”

Barnes nods his head yes.

“And another thing: absolutely no internet usage. Pornography is far too easy to access. In fact, I think it would be wise if you surrendered your phone to me. Don’t worry—I won’t look at it. We’ll turn it off and keep it safe until you’re on more solid ground.”

Barnes hands his phone over slowly. “How will people get ahold of me?”

“They won’t. And they don’t need to. Outside contact is only going to make things worse. The world will always be trying to lead you astray.”

He puts the phone in a drawer with the others.

“There’s a war going on,” Pierce says, “in the spirit realm and in our culture. But I promise you...you’re on the winning side. Come here.”

Pierce beckons the poor man into a hug.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The saddest part about this is the shit Pierce is saying is fairly MILD compared to some pastors. Teen Mania Ministries was a real thing - it got shut down a few years ago. Unfortunately you're going to learn more about it. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you need a palate cleanser after this, [here's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619982) a happy little pre-wartime Steve/Bucky story.


	5. Chapter 5

Hooooboy, does LAX ever make Steve’s head spin, for a couple of reasons. He’s felt dizzy since the moment he stepped off the plane and realized the population of this U-shaped airport is bigger than the whole of Brooklyn and then some.

Everybody’s chattering up a storm in languages innumerable and the sound of it reminds Steve of the times he got dragged to Bucky’s church and the congregation would all start speaking in tongues. _Ho-tie-tie-lo-tie-tie-my-bow-tie-tie._ That last part Bucky made up just to make Steve laugh.

By the time he’s walked from his gate to baggage claim, he’s utterly disoriented by it all: the smell of tacos and hamburgers, the sound of a child crying and screaming in what might be French or Glossolalia, the endless sea of busy faces.

But perhaps the most surreal part about LAX is that _the most beautiful woman in the world_ is holding a giant sign with Steve’s name printed right on it.

Dr. Erskine had said he was sending someone to pick him up since he was feeling ill. He hadn’t said she was going to be _the most beautiful woman in the world._ Warn a fella next time, doc.

Steve can barely carry his own worn out lookin’ luggage, which is embarrassing enough on its own, but when he sets it all down to greet this woman and maybe shake her hand, he ends up tripping over it and himself. Not enough to actually fall over, but just enough to look like a real clumsy dope. As if he didn’t already.

The woman’s bright red lips suppress a smile. “Hello Steve, I’m Dr. Carter. I’m vice president of The Erskine Institute.”

“I’m Steve,” Steve says, like an idiot. He shakes her hand and adds, “But I guess you already knew my name.” Because it’s _on the sign, ya shitwit._

“Do you need help with your things?” she asks, all business. There’s no _concern_ in her voice, which is a kindness on her part, maybe.

There are two possible answers to her question, and Steve’s not sure which one is worse. He can reject her offer out of pride and look like even more of an asshole when he can barely drag his suitcases out the door, or he can accept the help, which lets her know that he is every bit as un-manly as he appears to be.

“Help would be great,” he says, because honesty is the best policy, and it’s not like he has a chance with her anyway. She works at the school, not to mention she’s probably in her forties. And she has a British accent, for crying out loud. British accents are essentially the opposite of Southern ones, in that they communicate a certain sharpness and sophistication while even the slightest Southern drawl lets the world know that at least one of your relatives has married a cousin.

Dr. Carter hoists up a duffle bag and tilts her head toward the door. “My car’s this way.”

He does his best not to ogle her as she walks in front of him, but he can’t help but notice how sturdy and curvy she is, or the lovely streak of grey running through her otherwise dark hair. She glances back to make sure he’s still following her and Steve notices the laugh lines and frown lines and every other kind of soft wrinkle on her face. This is a woman who has _lived._ Steve has never so badly wished that he were older and wiser. She could snap him in half and he’d like it. 

He cannot think of a single intelligent thing to say at this point so he just goes, “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Oh, no trouble,” she says after slamming the packed car trunk closed. “Dr. Erskine is one of my oldest and dearest friends. It’s a favor to him.”

“You mean it’s not normal for the Vice President to play chauffeur to freshman?” Steve asks dryly.

Dr. Carter smiles at that and Steve lights up on the inside, since his dumb sarcastic humor is the cause.

She says, “I’ve also been looking forward to meeting you. There’s been quite the buzz.”

“Wha—really?” He can barely make eye contact with her as they buckle up.

“You’re practically famous already with the faculty,” she says. “They love finding a prodigy.”

“Oh I’m not— geez, I’m not—” Steve stammers.

“What, a prodigy? Naturally talented? Well, I think that’s for us to decide, don’t you?”

Steve lets out a nervous laugh and scrubs at his face. “Yeah—I guess. Geez, it just happened so fast. One minute I’m living in a single-wide and now I’m driving around in this fancy car with you. It don’t feel real. Doesn’t, I mean. It doesn’t feel real.”

“I know a little of what that’s like. I grew up in council housing in London, eating cold beans from aluminum cans for dinner. Now I’m 45 and vice president of a college. Where you’re from matters of course, just not in the way you think it does. I wouldn’t worry so much about it.”

Christ, she’s unbearably lovely. But she’s also old enough to be his mother. He tries to keep this in mind as they drive and get to talkin’.

She gives him a grand tour of sorts before they head to school, starting at In-N-Out Burger. In-N-Out is supposed to be really delicious, but it’s not _that_ delicious. It’s just not. It’s a standard fast food restaurant. It doesn’t taste all that different from Cook Out, if he’s being honest. Even Bojangles has better fries and he’d fight someone on that.

Except no one would fight him on that, because everyone in LA seems very free-spirited and relaxed.

Except in traffic. Pretty much no one is relaxed in traffic, which is understandable when it takes an hour to move 15 miles. You don’t measures things in miles here either apparently—just time. “How far away is the beach?” “45 minutes.” Maybe all the meditation centers they pass are just to recover from spending any amount of time on the 405.

People here drink smoothies with salad in them. Steve’s full from In-N-Out but they stop and grab one anyway. They’re actually extremely tasty, but they cost about triple what a milkshake does back in Brooklyn. That’s a whole other thing—everything is more expensive. There’s a Dollar General here, but even that looks fancier.

Well, he thought it looked fancy until Dr. Carter decided to drive him through Beverly Hills. Steve didn’t understand fancy until he set his eyes upon the wealth and splendor of Beverly Hills. It’s a beautiful place—so beautiful Steve can’t decide if he hates it or loves it.

“A bit sickening, isn’t it?” Dr. Carter says, much to Steve’s relief.

“I’ll say. Wonder how much it costs to keep those lawns alive?”

“More than your tuition, probably.”

Steve swallows. There’s a questions he’s been meaning to ask. He’s nervous but she’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Maybe if he gets this crush under control she’ll be more like a big sister or something. “If I’m not what the school thinks I am...I mean if I don’t _deliver._ Do I gotta pay everything back?”

“Gracious, no. All financial aspects are settled. Dr. Erskine’s paid for everything. Tuition, room, board, books, fees. An expense account. If you need anything, just let the school know, and you’ll get it.”

“God. It’s just so crazy,” Steve says gratefully. He inexplicably thinks of Harry Potter going off to Hogwarts and how Harry thought maybe Hagrid wasn’t real and that it was all a joke. Bucky hadn’t been allowed to read Harry Potter, of course, due to the apparent risk of demon possession. So he’d sneak it from Steve and it was just another secret between them.

Anyway.

Steve’s beyond thankful about his current, completely unbelievable situation, but something still isn’t sitting well with him. Maybe he is a prodigy but there’s still such a thing as being _too_ nice. Dr. Carter turns onto a road called Wilshire Blvd and they drive for a long while, passing signs for Santa Monica. There’s a few more turns and then Steve sees it: the Pacific Ocean.

“Would you like to get out?” she asks.

“I’m about to jump right out of this car,” Steve says. They pay to park somewhere real quick and Steve runs out toward the water like a big dopey kid, even though his back is killing him. Dr. Carter looks pretty happy herself as she trails behind him in the sand, wind blowing her hair every which way.

The beach is certainly different from the Gulf Coast. For one thing, the water is cold. The water itself is just _bigger_ , somehow. And there aren’t any crawdads or swamps or big oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. But there are _mountains_ here. Mountains like Steve’s never seen. Vast, otherworldly mountains. They jut up right next to the choppy waterline and Steve can’t wait to draw it all.

He soaks his feet alone for a moment before Dr. Carter catches up and kicks off her flats and joins him.

“This isn’t just about me, is it?” Steve says.

“Pardon?”

“All this. It’s all very Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, isn’t it? Or Make-A-Wish, except as far as I know, _I’m_ not dying.”

“Well,” Dr. Carter says sadly, “Dr. Erskine’s been battling pancreatic cancer for several years. He’s actually doing better than ever. Currently in remission. But he’s grown increasingly liberal with his funds.”

“He don’t got a family to give it to?”

“Academia has been his sole focus. I don’t think he regrets it.”

Steve shimmies his foot around under the water just to watch the tiny little waves it makes. The coolness of the water grounds him; not much else feels real right about now. He’s wading around in the Pacific with the most beautiful woman in the world, he’s been handpicked by a dying man for a scholarship so generous it’s practically an inheritance, and Bucky knows none of this because he won’t answer his email. Steve sent one before he left and heard nothing back.

“Dr. Carter?”

“You may call me Peggy.”

“I don’t think I can do that. Where I’m from, it ai—isn’t proper.”

“It’s fine in Southern California.”

“Okay, Peggy. I got a question.”

“Yes?”

“Why me?” Steve asks, and his voice almost cracks. “Why’d Dr. Erskine pick _me_?”

“Because a privileged kid might take this chance for granted. But you? You won’t.”

“So it’s because I’m poor?”

“It’s because you’ll stay humble.”

“Thanks...I think.”

Dr. Carter hands him a smooth, cream colored seashell she’d picked up moments ago. “Let’s get you to school, shall we?”

  


*

 

The Erskine Institute of the Arts looks more like a resort than a school, in Steve’s opinion, what with the palm trees lining the streets and mediterranean architecture: orange-brown clay tile roofs, stucco siding, and lush open courtyards with flowers and succulents growing all around.

Dr. Carter goes back into tour guide mode and shows off all the academic buildings, the gym and the computer labs, the theatre, and finally the studios, which make Steve’s head damn near explode. But the real kicker comes when she says she’s gonna drop him off at his accommodations.

Steve had pictured a dorm. In his head a dorm room was a small square room with a window unit and maybe a shelf built into the wall and a big shared bathroom down the hall where he’d desperately need to wear flip flops when showering.

The Institute did have its own version of this, but that’s not where Steve is placed, apparently.

“We’ve put you in Terrace C instead,” Dr. Carter explains pleasantly. She drives out past the majority of the school’s buildings toward a little row of townhouses. “You’ll have two housemates, one with whom you’ll share a room. Is that alright with you?”

“Unacceptable,” Steve jokes. “I want an ocean view.”

“So spoiled,” Peggy sighs.

“My housemates—are they here already?” Steve doesn’t see any cars or bikes or signs of life.

“Gone for the summer but I believe they’ll be back in a week or so.”

“So I’ve got the place all to myself?”

“Enjoy,” Peggy smiles.

 

Steve is definitely not in Mississippi anymore.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

 

The more you try to scrub your mind clean, the grimier it seems to get. 

Bucky’s been doing plenty of cleaning lately but there’s still so much mess. It multiples in his brain like the dirty dishes in the industrial-sized kitchen sinks he tries to keep so spotless. Or like the dirt on the chapel floor.

The chapel is bursting at the seams at the moment with overly-chipper people and Bucky can’t be bothered to play along at the moment. He sits down toward the back of the building and closes his eyes and tries to think about nothing in particular until the Sunday morning service starts.

Maybe people will think he’s praying back here. He  _ wants _ to pray, he really does—and he would if he didn’t feel so mad at God for cursing him with the affliction that led him here in the first place.

But no, that’s not right—God didn’t curse him. Satan did. All sin entered the world because of the Fall of Man.

 _Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me._ _Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me._

Bucky’s got the Apostle Paul beat by about a thousand pleas. He wonders still what  Paul’s “thorn” was when he wrote that verse in the Bible to the Corinthians. Some theologians say the thorn was Paul’s temper. Others say it was some kind of eye disease that wouldn’t go away. Regardless of what it was exactly, it’s a relatable sentiment.  

Bucky’s been aware of his thorn since before he could really remember anything at all. It’s always been there, like any other aspect of him, but it started hurting more and more come middle school and it just keeps digging deeper, a sharp splinter headed straight for his heart. Pastor Pierce still hasn’t determined a reason for its presence yet.

It could be that Bucky has issues with his father.

Or maybe the issue is that his mother was too overbearing and there was too much feminine energy in his household. 

Or it could be because he wasn’t spanked enough as a kid. 

Or he could be possessed by a demon, in which case he’ll need an exorcism. 

The list goes on.

Pierce says the Lord will provide the answer when the time is right for healing. 

But why isn’t the right time now? Why wasn’t the right time ten years ago, or twenty, or before he was even born at all? If God is omnipotent, all-knowing, all-everything, why would he let Satan get away with cursing Paul, Jesus’ most eager apostle?

Why would God let anyone get away with any misbehavior at all? Couldn't he just put a stop to evil and pain all together? So many years of serving the Lord and he’s still asking the same question he’s been asking since he was a boy: why did God let Eve eat that apple?

Why let men fall in the first place?

The Fall of Man. The Fall of Man in the Garden of Eden. The fall of Bucky in the Garden of Valley. He’s in Garden Valley, Texas in a chapel that he cleaned. He’s about an hour from Dallas. He feels out of breath all of a sudden.

 

He’s in Garden Valley, Texas. 

He’s in a mud pit during basic training, being screamed at. 

He’s being woken up at 3am to go jump in a pool full of ice cold water. 

He’s being forced to eat live worms. 

He’s being told he’s a quitter but he’s not. He does more push ups, despite having not eaten that day. Prayer and fasting. Prayer and fasting. “I beat my body and make it my slave.” That’s the motto. He doesn’t need sleep or food, just God Almighty. 

He’s sobbing in the shower, where no one can hear, after another mud pit drill. 

He wants to spiral down the drain along with the red clay sludge and find himself in the ocean, floating free like foam on the waves. 

He wants to float but he is sinking and he misses home. 

He doesn't need to tell anyone back home what goes on here. Hush. 

He’s in Guatemala. He’s in the Dominican Republic. He’s in Mexico. 

 

He’s building houses. 

He’s teaching English. 

He’s sharing the good news that Jesus saves us from God’s wrath. He’s telling children the good news that humans are so wretched that God had to kill his own son just to get over how much we hurt his feelings. None of it makes sense.

 

He’s in a comfy, run down trailer in Brooklyn with Steve, reading books and drinking coffee and all he wants to do is cover Steve’s body with his own and breathe in tandem until they melt away together, gone.

He’s on craigslist that same summer, the summer of books and coffee and wanting to breathe with Steve. He’s in a park on a hot night, waiting for a gruff stranger to suck the loneliness from his body. He’s so sick with himself afterward that he decides to make a run for it, a run from it. He’s leaving Steve behind instead of leading Steve to hell.

He’s standing in that comfy trailer one last time, watching Steve’s face fall.

_ “The hell are you talking about? You can’t stand all that Bible thumpin’.” _

_ “Look, mission work ain’t Bible thumpin’ anyhow. This is just something I gotta do.”  _

_ “What’s gotten into you? This ain’t like you.” _

_ “Steve. C’mon. Sometimes people change.”  _

He has to change.

 

He’s in Garden Valley, Texas, and there’s a woman at the piano tinkering around and saying good morning, welcome, isn’t God good. It’s Sunday morning. Please stand. She  asks everybody to stand and everybody does and they sing the usual songs, except Bucky doesn’t hear them at all. In his head he replays a song he used to sing in children’s church over and over and over. The background noise of his upbringing is now ringing in his ears.

_ I may never march in the infantry _

_ Ride in the cavalry _

_ Shoot the artillery _

_ I may never shoot for the enemy _

_ But I'm in the Lord's army! _

_ I'm in the Lord's army! _

_ Yes Sir! _

_ I'm in the Lord's army! _

_ Yes sir! _

_ I'm in the Lord's army! _

_ Yes sir! _

_ I may never march in the infantry _

_ Ride in the cavalry _

_ Shoot the artillery _

_ I may never shoot for the enemy _

_ But I'm in the Lord's army! _

 

Yes, sir.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is an actual children's song that you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDIy5TUXovo) if you'd like to be totally creeped out.


	7. Chapter 7

 

to: jamesbbarnes@gmail.com

from: srogers@eia.edu 

 

Hey Buck, 

I’m gonna pretend like you read my other emails so I don’t have to keep catching you up each time. For all I know you are reading them but just can’t reply yet. Not sure how your internet is in Kenya anyhow. I’ve got so many questions about your life these days but since you probably can’t answer at the moment I’m just gonna blab about California some more because nothing really feels real until I tell you about it.

Erskine Institute is an incredibly welcoming place, which sure is a relief considering my last experience at a school. We got painters and dancers and sculptors here and none of them seem to care all that much that I’m a broke kid from Mississippi. In fact, people seem to find it interesting, although I do have to keep clarifying that no, I’m not a Republican, and no, I’m not particularly religious (haha, sorry). I’ve found it’s best to dispel the assumptions right up front. Although I haven’t told anybody about the gun I left behind back home, or why I used it, just in case I upset the vegans.

Look, I’ve got nothing against the vegans, it’s just that they can be a little high and mighty about what they eat is all, and I don’t really have the patience to explain to them that most folks back home would goodly and truly starve to death if they tried it. You need money to be that healthy, or at least the luxury of time to grow your own garden, not to mention the means to protect it. I’m pretty damn sure none of these swanky folks have never woken up to find all their well-pruned tomato plants eaten down to the root by a deer. And I’m absolutely sure none of them have ever been so hungry that they’d fill up on Armour vienna sausages. I try not to be resentful about that. People don’t know what they don’t know.

But hey, there’s plenty I don’t know either, and I never thought about how much energy and resources are wasted by feeding our food, so that was a good point, and there’s all this climate change stuff to think about, and the girls keep talking about this thing called the patriarchy, which is also bad and might even be the reason I’ve been picked on his whole life, so I’m just fine with that being smashed. All in all I’m learning a lot and people are really nice about it.

Too nice, Bucky. Weirdly nice. And girls—girls at school act into me at least in a friendly way. People know who I am without actually knowing who I am. I’m a few weeks into classes and I think I might be popular. There’s no other word for it. I’m turning into you.

It’s definitely a stupid thing to complain about but it’s very weird. I’m not being bullied anymore. It’s like the exact opposite of bullying. But honestly being popular does feel a little lonely at times too in its own way, because now I gotta worry if people really like me or me or if they just think being friends with me will get them special favors with Dr. Erskine or something.

I must sound like a real asshole right now. But the thing is, I think you understand. Back in school or at your church, you were always the center of attention and you didn’t always love it. I remember that much. So I hope you understand. It’s an awful lot of pressure. I would tell my housemates all this but I’m still trying to make a good impression and they might think I’m an ingrate.

My roommate Sam arrived to Terrace C about a week after I did, with a few bags and a lot of stories and thankfully no complaints about having some new freshman kid for a roommate. I felt this huge heap of guilt for invading his space, but Sam seemed to take it all in stride and he acted like he was maybe even grateful for the extra company. He sort of reminds me of you in that way, how ya’ll both seem to enjoy life more with a surplus of people around. To the point he even threw a party at our place just to help me meet people. I may have gotten a teensy bit drunk and tried to paint a mural on the kitchen wall before my other housemate Nat stopped me.

Yes, Nat is a woman and I’m going to be honest, it still seems a little scandalous to me that I’m living with her. I’m sure it does to you. It just doesn’t seem proper but around here they don’t think anything of it. She does live upstairs with her own room and bathroom at least, so there’s a respectful distance. Anyway, she’s a dancer. A real good one from what I’ve heard but I haven't seen proof yet and I’m not sure that I will because she’s very aloof. Don’t get me wrong, she’s friendly, she’ll talk your ear off, but then you get the end of the conversation and realize you still know nothing about her even though she just peered directly into your soul and took notes. It’s hard not to get a crush, but I asked Sam about her and he just laughed and said I was “not her type.” You’d probably be her type. You should come visit so we can find out.

I wish you could see it here. I know I keep saying it. Sam took me up to the Griffith Observatory which is where you can see the Hollywood sign. But even better than the sign is the view of the mountains. It’s funny, when I first got here everything felt like a dream, but I guess I’ve been here just long enough that now it’s Brooklyn that’s starting to feel like one.

Or maybe it’s just because the past few years Brooklyn didn’t feel much like Brooklyn. I’ve been doing a whole lot of thinking about it and I’ve come to the conclusion that Brooklyn is you and me having fun and getting into trouble more so than a town. I don’t know if that makes any sense. It’s kinda late here and I’m rambling. I checked and Kenya is 11 hours ahead of LA. So if it’s 2AM here that means it’s 1PM there and you’re probably having lunch or something. Eat up, Buck. I hope you can write back soon.

 

Your friend,

Steve

 

P.S. I got an A on my first big project!

  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

 

to: jamesbbarnes@gmail.com  

from: srogers@eia.edu

  


Bucky,

Remember that one summer when you had to go to sleepaway camp up near Jackson for a month? You hated it and you sent me a postcard every single day you were gone. I guess filling up your inbox with all these emails is payback. Not that I hate it here. I really really love it for the most part. I find myself wanting to tell you about the dumbest shit, like how the smog looks in the morning or the weird quirks of my professors. I’d send you real postcards about it all but I don’t know where to send them to, not to mention by the time they’d arrived you’d probably be skedaddling back to the states.  

I keep thinking you should be back by now, but I guess my sense of time is a mess. I saw a fake skeleton strung up in a tree today. It was just a Halloween decoration but the reminder that it’s October was a jolt to the system and scary in its own way. Halloween is a much bigger deal here than it was back home, that’s for sure. That’s probably because half the people in the good state of Mississippi think celebrating it will land them a nice spot in hell. Not sure what you think about all THAT these days, but I assume you’re not doing a lot of trick-or-treating in Kenya. Don’t think I will be either. Besides. Halloween to me is wandering around a righteously non-spooky church parking lot and taking candy out of car trunks. “HARVEST, NOT HALLOWEEN,” they would say. We ate those mud pies your momma used to make. Them things were granny slappin’ good and damn if I don’t got a hankering for one now. Just THINKING about them makes my accent come back in full force. Anyway.

Autumn in Los Angeles is different than Brooklyn, but not really by that much. I guess the biggest difference is that LA is dry and breezy. Meanwhile Brooklyn is an armpit this time of year and always. But it’s still pretty warm here and the leaves don’t change much. Feels like the leaves are the only things NOT changing, you know what I mean? It’s been one big change after another since I got here.

Still struggling with the whole idea of being popular. I know, I know—I reckon I sound like an asshole. It’s a real trip though. My roommate Sam says I should get used to it, because I’m going to be “legit” famous someday. Yikes. I told him to shut up and he just laughed. Nat says I should keep my identity a secret and use a fake name to sell my art so I can have the best of both worlds. It’s the kind of comment I expect from her. The woman is truly a mystery to me. I so wish we could all hang out sometime.

  
—Steve

  
  
  


*

  
  


Natasha Romanoff has the unique and remarkable ability to slink into a room just quietly enough that Steve is utterly oblivious to her presence for embarrassing amounts of time. She claims she’s not trying to spy on anybody, that it’s just how she moves naturally, with an almost feline grace that lends itself well to dancing. Intentional spying or not, it’s led to Steve having the bejesus scared out of him on several occasions.

He’ll be zoned out, doing commonplace tasks like cooking or reading when he realizes she’s _right there_ also doing something totally normal, like homework or boredly filing her nails. The first time it happened he jumped about three feet in the air and held back an honest to god scream.

“How long have you been there?” Steve will ask, only to be more and more horrified by the answer each time: “Just five minutes.” “Fifteen minutes.” “Thirty minutes, maybe?” “Steve, I was in this kitchen before you were.”

The corners of her mouth will crinkle up into a tiny, teasing smile and she’ll reveal some detail from the scene that makes Steve very happy that he didn’t do anything truly cringeworthy like pick his nose or worse.

This afternoon Steve’s got just about every sketch or painting he’s made since moving to LA laid out all over the living room: on the coffee table, the floor, the couch. He’s lost in thought, sitting cross legged on the carpet, trying to figure out a way to arrange the good ones into a midterm portfolio when he hears Nat’s sly voice ask, “So who’s the guy?” from directly behind him.

He startles, even though he really should be used to this by now. “How long—”

“Relax,” Nat says. “I’ve been here all of two minutes—but way to avoid the question.”

“What?”

Nat takes on a seat on the floor next to him with interest. She points to a sketch of Bucky. “Who is he?”

“Oh, that’s Bucky,” Steve says simply. “He’s from back home. We grew up together.”

“The guy in Africa you’re always talking about?”

“Am I...always talking about him?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Nat’s right eyebrow quirks up. “You didn’t realize that you draw the same person in all of your work and talk about him more than you talk about yourself?”

“I—I guess not.”

“So is he your boyfriend?”

Steve’s heart plummets into his stomach. He remembers Brock Rumlow asking him this exact question when he was 13, just before breaking Steve’s collarbone. He’s been called a faggot more times than he cares to remember but he definitely didn’t expect her to start teasing him like this. They’re at an art school, for crying out loud. Is she really going to pick on him for being _artsy_? He can feel his hackles rise, that old familiar instinct to protect himself rearing up. He knew all this niceness was too good to be true and he’s ready to spit fire and raise hell and make everyone leave him the fuck alone.

“I like women,” he says. It sounds awful defensive for being the truth.

“I never said you didn’t,” Nat says. She’s trying not to smile, like this is funny to her. “I just asked if he was your boyfriend.”

“C’mon. Cut it out,” he says. It’s a crazy, stupid question and Steve refuses to entertain it.

“Cut what out?”

“Look, people used to bully me all the time back home about this shit. I’m used to it. I was just hoping you weren’t an asshole like them.”

Nat narrows her eyes like she wants to get mad, but it’s gone in a flash and her face softens like she’s figured something out, like she’s seeing Steve for the first time. “You’ve never been asked this question for real, have you? It’s always been as an insult.”

“Well. Isn’t it?”

“Not when I’m asking.”

His hackles fall just a little. “So. You’re _not_ teasing me?”

“Oh, I _am._ Just not in the way you think. I tease _everyone_ about their love lives. What I don’t do is judge people for their sexualities. It would be a little hypocritical of me, considering I’m a lesbian.”

His eyes instantly flick from their determined, angry spot on the carpet to hers and stay there for what might be a full, solid minute or maybe even an hour, he’s not sure. “Oh,” is all he can manage to say.

“You’re really not used to talking about this sort of thing, are you?”

“No,” Steve admits. “People are more shy about it where I’m from.”

 _Shy_ is the understatement of the century, right there. Forrest County wasn’t exactly putting on pride parades. And gay sex was technically a _criminal act_ in the state of Mississippi until 2003.

“I’m from a place like that,” Nat says. “Which is why I’m going to drop this. It’s no fun if you’re actually uncomfortable.”

Steve doesn’t really want the conversation to end, but he lets it, because he’s frozen solid, a deer in headlights again. Nat stands up and surveys all his art once more while slinging a book bag over her shoulder.  “You must love him a lot,” she says. “I’m not saying in what way. But it’s beautiful work. Good job.”

When she’s out the door and gone, Steve looks over everything he’s made, every brush stroke and pencil mark, and thinks, yeah, okay, damnit. Maybe her question wasn’t the craziest thing.

It’s just—

Here’s what Steve knows: he likes women, and sometimes he has thoughts about men, and sometimes he even has thoughts about Bucky, but Bucky is his best friend, so dwelling on that would be wrong, so he doesn’t. He just doesn’t. It’s the principle of the matter.

The first time Steve noticed Bucky’s body _like that_ , they were maybe 14 and 15 and skinny dipping, even though that’s way too old to be skinny dipping. Bucky hauled himself out of the warm lake water to climb a rope swing while sopping wet and Steve felt himself blush hot from his face all the way down to where the water was thankfully still covering him. He just about worried himself an ulcer afterward, thinking that Bucky somehow sensed it. He can tell Bucky anything and everything, except for that. For so many reasons.  

Hell, he’s never told _anybody_ and he doesn’t need to because it’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal.

Everybody has weird, stray thoughts like that.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He’s just lonely sometimes.

Sometimes hormones go haywire.

It’s not a big deal.

But it's jarring now to think about what it must look like from the outside. It’s like he’s noticing there’s this Big Obvious Thing in the room with him that he’s ignored out of pure stubbornness and self-preservation. He’s only ever glimpsed it from the corner of his eye. He wonders how long it’s really been standing there. Worst of all he wonders if Bucky has noticed it too.

  
  


*

  


to: jamesbbarnes@gmail.com  

from: srogers@eia.edu

  


I’m sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable for any reason.  .I think you mgiht know what I mean. If you don’t tho then don’t worry about it haha

I”m kinda drunk

 

Cordually!

Your brother Steven

  
  
  


*

  


to: jamesbbarnes@gmail.com  

from: srogers@eia.edu

  


Hey Buck,

Please ignore that last email. I was more than “kinda” drunk.

 

—S

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I slowly but surely pull this story from my brain!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: hazing, emotional abuse, Evangelical bullshit

There’s this story in the Bible, in the Old Testament, all the way back in Genesis chapter 22, where on God’s holy orders, good ole Abraham almost sacrificed his young son Isaac on an altar. He didn’t want to, he’d spent the last 25 years hoping for a son. But in his hand he took the fire and the knife. He was gonna do the deed, he really was.

At the last second, God sent an angel to stop Abraham. The angel said it was all just a test, that God was just checking to see if Abraham would do _anything_ to please Him, because He is a jealous God. He wouldn’t stand for being second place in Abraham’s heart, no sir. If you wanna serve the Lord, you have to be willing to go to the extreme.

The moral of the story is don’t love anything too much.

Teen Mania Ministries got started all the way back in 1986, the year of Halley's Comet and Top Gun. At first the ministry was just a bunch of anti-drug youth rallies. But those rallies got bigger and bigger. The founders were filling up stadiums and hiring rock bands and charismatic speakers to talk to teenagers about living radically for God. If you wanna serve the Lord, they said, you have to be willing to go to the extreme to prove it.

Eventually they started taking the message to the rest of the world. There were strategies and battle plans, because this was a war for souls after all. But all those conferences and mission trips had to be planned, of course, so they needed a headquarters and they needed people to help run everything on a grassroots level due to funds always being tight. Roughly 600 unpaid interns all under the age of 26 shared a large, industrial-like structure.

  


Bucky shuts his tired intern eyes around midnight, after scrubbing some toilets and getting sucked into a prayer meeting that lasted a long, long time. He can feel himself finally start drifting in the dark of his room.

Well, his room is really more of a closet with a mattress on the floor. It’s 300 square feet, maybe, but about half of that space is taken up by large, built-in shelving that holds books and a few cleaning supplies. It was clearly a storage closet initially, judging by the sterile fluorescent light in the ceiling that Bucky hates flicking on. He’d rather dress in the dark than get his eyes burned every morning. It would be nice to have other accommodations, it really would. But this will do for now. The staff couldn’t let him bunk with the guys, or the girls for that matter, so here he is.

But hey, at least it’s private. Plenty of people have it worse when it comes to living situations, a fact backed up by his recent international travels, so he’s not going to complain. It’s really more than he deserves. Although he misses his big comfy quilt from back home, the one Sarah Rogers made him for Christmas several years ago.

His mind wanders to Steve and then corrects itself.

Nighttime is always the hardest.

But much to his surprise it’s getting a little easier to control his mind.

Pastor Pierce says that when tempted by sin, it’s best to picture Jesus dying on the cross for our transgressions. It’s us who put him there, after all. And so like most nights, Bucky falls asleep imagining blood, a spear, a crown of thorns. The hissing mob and the weeping women. We all must climb up our own personal Golgothas and die to ourselves, our wants, our earthly wishes, amen, goodnight.  

Goodnight.

  


They beat on his door around 2AM.

“Keep Awakes” are usually reserved for the new recruits, an introduction of sorts, but Bucky hasn’t gone a single night back at headquarters without a higher ranking cadet dragging him out of bed at odd hours for push ups or a nice crawl through the mud. He’s sort of lucky in that way. If all this chaos builds moral character, as they assure it does, his is going to be stronger than most when it’s all said and done.

He throws on some clothes and pulls on his dirt-covered sneakers and marches with the other interns out to the fields.

East Texas ain’t exactly cold but there’s a bite in the air at this time of the morning. It wouldn’t matter much except the drill sergeant is yelling, “IN THE WATER, LADIES!” and that only means one thing. Bucky quickly ditches his shoes.

He and the other interns submerge themselves in an inky-looking pond as quickly as they can, because the anticipation of its chill is really worse than the chill itself. The water isn’t too deep, just over 5 feet maybe, and everyone can touch the bottom at least. But the flashlights on the water and the darkness of the morning still make the experience pretty unnerving. One green guy to his left laughs from the shock and the adrenaline of it all.

He’ll get used to it.

If not, he’ll just get kicked out and sent home, a fate most everybody here seems to want to avoid more than anything else. Just about every friend Bucky’s made here comes from what you call a “broken home,” with parents that are either divorced or addicts or maybe just emotionally absent, so this place offers a family like no other. Bucky’s really the odd man out, coming from such responsible, God-fearing stock. _He that spares the rod hates his son: but he that loves him chastens him._ Being disciplined is really a gift.

“LET’S STRETCH THOSE LUNGS,” the drill sergeant yells. He’s an older staff member, the kind that gets paid. Late 40s. Even in the dim light Bucky knows his face will be red from yelling in a matter of apoplectic moments.

“I DON’T WANNA SEE YOUR UGLY HEADS POP BACK UP FOR AT LEAST 30 SECONDS. GO!”

Bucky draws a deep breath and ducks underwater.

He releases the air in his lungs slowly and sinks to the muddy bottom.

1, 2, 3  —

28, 29  —

“AGAIN!”

Another deep breath. 1, 2, 3  —

“AGAIN!”

“AGAIN!”

“AGAIN!”

After a few more rounds, a girl crawls out of the pond, hyperventilating and crying. The sound of her whimpering is suddenly louder than the splashing. A strange thing happens to Bucky then. He’s in the water but he’s no longer in the water. He’s somewhere else entirely, watching the scene as if from above. He doesn’t feel wet or cold.

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

“YOU’RE REALLY GONNA QUIT NOW? AFTER ALL THIS? WHEN YOU’RE ALMOST DONE?”

The drill instructor is yelling at her but it sounds like it’s coming from inside a seashell. It sounds like it’s coming from a cave. The girl sobs louder.

“ _I can’t do this anymore_ ,” she wails. It’s not an angry yell, just a miserable one. _“I feel like I’m drowning.”_

“RECITE SECOND TIMOTHY 2:3.”

There’s silence. Silence that stretches like silly putty. Bucky hopes it goes on forever but eventually the girl mumbles, “ _Join with me in suffering, like a good soldier of Christ Jesus.”_

“LOUDER.”

“Join with me in suffering, like a good soldier of Christ Jesus.”

“YOU’RE ALL MORE CAPABLE THAN YOU THINK,” the sergeant yells. “BUT YOU’VE GOT TO RELY ON GOD’S STRENGTH, NOT YOUR OWN. CAN YOU DO THAT?”

“SIR, YES SIR.”

“35 SECONDS THIS TIME. LAST TIME. PUSH YOURSELVES.”

Bucky sinks, once again.

 

When it’s all over he’s just too tired to shower, so he settles for merely toweling off the pond water and climbing back into bed, damp and shivering. He misses that thick heavy quilt again, the one Sarah Rogers made him. He misses huddling under it with Steve—

Nighttime is the hardest.  He thinks of something else, anything else. The crucifixion. The annunciation. The transfiguration. What he’s going to eat tomorrow for breakfast. He’s hungry.

He’s just so hungry.

He misses home. He misses Steve’s collarbones. He misses Steve’s smell: ivory soap and the hardware store. He misses the way his sandy hair falls into his eyes. Those slight artist’s hands with busted knuckles. His fire. His spite. His goodness. That boy is blindingly bright on the inside, burning like July sunshine. Steve is some kind of angry angel. Bucky misses the _warmth_ of him. It’s the only real home he’s ever known. Steve always thought that he was the lonely one, the outsider that Bucky rescued, but it was really the other way around.

He falls asleep remembering the night they fell asleep together in Bucky’s truck bed, under the stars, after a long day of fishing and catching absolutely nothing, during the summer of books and coffee and living together in that broke-down trailer. Bucky had woken up on his side, with Steve’s face buried in his chest. And because Steve was still asleep, and no one was around for miles, Bucky had languidly draped an arm over him and pulled him closer.  

Bucky is asleep.

He’s dreaming, this is a dream.

He’s still in the truck bed with Steve and no one is around for miles. There’s nothing but them and the pale woods and the morning dew. Steve’s face is still buried in his chest. Bucky gently smells his hair, breathes him in. Then he tips Steve’s chin up and kisses him awake.

Steve’s eyes open and he smiles mischievously, right into the kiss. And damn if that ain’t the best thing Bucky’s ever seen.

The kiss stays soft at first but then Steve starts getting open-mouthed and greedy. He’s grabbing at Bucky’s hair like the little instigator that he is until finally Bucky can’t take it anymore; he rolls onto his back, pulling Steve on top of him. Bucky would really rather it be the other way around, but he doesn’t want to hurt Steve. But then again— _wow_ —this position does have its advantages: his hands can explore Steve’s body so easily. He’s not as light as people would think. Sure his frame’s smaller than the average guy, but he’s all firm, wiry muscle underneath. It’s the contradictions of Steve that drive Bucky crazy. Steve’s personality is far too large for his compact body. His lips are too soft to spit all those rough words. He’s too delicate to smell like motor oil all the damn time. Fuck, he loves him so much, every inch of him—

Bucky’s hands roam down Steve’s body until he’s peeling off Steve’s t-shirt and then kneading Steve’s ass through his jeans. But he decides he doesn’t want Steve to be wearing jeans, so he wrestles them off and shimmies out of his own so they’re both down to boxers. He grips Steve more roughly than he means to flips them over. He was wrong before, Steve can take it. Bucky’s bigger and heavier but Steve’s unbreakable. He’s so fucking beautiful, panting underneath him like that. They’re grinding and rubbing off against each other in a rhythm that feels so natural, it’s like they’ve done this before.

But they’ve never done this.

This is a dream.

Bucky jerks awake and decides he needs a shower after all, a cold one. With water as cold as that inky-black pond. His dick still won’t calm down, so he grips it and pumps it while thinking of nothing, nothing at all, because he’s awake now and not dreaming. This shower needs a good scrubbing. There’s grime in the floor tiles. He spills himself down the drain.

By the time his head hits the pillow again, he’s got Leviticus 18:22 on his mind and not much else.

  


The sun rises far too early for Bucky’s liking. Not that he’d know it _directly_ —there’s no window in his room. But his alarm goes off shrilly to let him know that it’s time for kitchen duty.

He’s got the kind of headache that makes him want to reach for some ibuprofen, until he remembers he’s not supposed to take medicine. It shows a lack of faith in divine healing. He settles for rubbing his temples for a moment before flicking on the fluorescent light and just letting it blind him, who cares. He sees spots everywhere as he gets dressed. He wanders down the hallway and then down the stairs.

He helps make breakfast. Again.

He helps serve breakfast. Again.

He helps clean up breakfast. Again.

“Hey Bucky,” another intern says, a pretty one. She hails him over to a table where the rest of the kitchen crew sits, triumphant from a job well done. “Come sit with us.”

“Can’t,” Bucky shrugs. He tries to think of something funny to say. He used to be funny, a long time ago. He used to hang out with people.

“Why not?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward Pierce’s office. “Got an appointment in a few minutes.”

This seems to appease the table. They nod. Important God business always comes before socializing. Hardly anyone knows why he meets with Pierce or why he gets his own room. Most people assume he’s just holier than the rest. If they only knew. But he hopes they don’t.

By the time he actually makes it to Pierce’s office, he feels like he might fall over. He can’t remember the last time he got more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep. His head throbs. It feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. For the first time in a long time, despite the things she’s said and done to hurt Bucky in the past, he thinks to himself: _I want my mom._

His parents need to hear from him. He always calls them after a mission trip, at least every two months. It’s been too long. How long has he been here? Why aren’t they worried? He needs his phone back.

“How’re you this morning,” Pierce asks from behind his desk.

“A little tired. And a little homesick—I really should call my parents. I need my phone.”

Pierce sets down the papers he was holding. “Oh, I’ve been in contact with your parents. Don’t worry.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I thought it best if I made them aware of your...condition.”

Bucky’s insides turn to ice. “You—You told them?”

“Of course. What, did you expect me to _lie_?”

 _Like you,_ he doesn’t say. But Bucky hears it loud and clear. And that’s fair. That’s true. Bucky is a liar.

“What’d they say?”

“They said that you’re doing the right thing. They said they love you and want you to stay as long as it takes to be healed. They also said not to contact your siblings until you are. They don’t want you...how should I say this...they don’t want you _influencing_ them. I think it’s a reasonable fear. They were very adamant about it.”

Bucky’s looking at Pierce but he’s really staring at the wall behind him. He’s not really in the room anymore at all, he’s somewhere else entirely again. He might as well be in outer space. He’s looking down at the Earth from afar and he can see his brothers and his sister, waving. John and Mark and Becca. His parents don’t want him in their lives anymore.

“James?”

“Yeah.”

Pierce is holding Bucky’s phone. He really looks like he’s about to hand it to him. “You know, no one is keeping you here. I just want to make that clear again. You have a choice. You can walk out the door today and abandon all the work you’ve done. But think very hard about what you’re giving up if you do. Now—do you still want this back?”

“No,” Bucky says, feeling himself sink under the water yet again. This time he doesn’t know if he’ll ever come back up for air.

  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Steve’s face lights up with a smile when he sees the name Gabe Jones appear on his phone. Gabe lives in Hattiesburg now, just a hop and a skip and a jump away from Brooklyn. He was always nice to Steve in school, and is therefore one of the few people Steve still keeps in touch with now, although usually just via texts like a normal fuckin’ person.

“You’re calling me on the phone,” Steve says by way of a greeting. He sets down his paints and wipes his brow with his free hand. “What the hell, hi.”

“Hey man,” Gabe says concernedly. “You got a minute?”

Steve’s stomach tightens. This suddenly sounds like death notification phone call. His mind immediately jumps to Dum Dum. He doesn’t want to picture that. The coffin, the flag. His heart is racing. “Everything okay?”

“Well, that’s what I’m calling to ask you. Have you heard from Barnes at all?”

 _Oh._ Steve relaxes a little. This is probably about not being able to reach Bucky. This is probably about other people realizing Bucky got weird. Whew. Steve was fixin’ to have himself a heart attack.

“He’s in Kenya,” Steve says. “Hasn’t been answering my emails. Don’t think he’s got internet.”

“I thought for sure he’d at least still be talking to _you.”_

“I think the only person he’s talking to these days is Jesus,” Steve says, trying his best not to sound bitter.

 _“_ Here’s the thing. He’s _not_ still in Kenya. And he’s gone MIA with everybody back in Brooklyn.”

“Wait—even the Bible thumpers?”

“Everybody. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this but it’s kinda why I’m calling. I got a buddy Jim who’s been tryna date Rebecca. Of course her parents aren’t having none of it ‘cause he’s Asian.”

“Shocking.”

“But they’ve been talking. And he said that Becca said Bucky’s in Texas at some compound and he’s like...sick or something. Becca doesn’t know with what. Her parents are being real weird about it and won’t tell her what’s going on. So she’s freaking out thinking he’s dying or some shit. She’s probably overreacting. But those pentecostals are weird, man. They don’t believe in going to doctors, right?”

“Some don’t,” Steve says. His mouth has gone dry and his mind is racing. “Plenty don’t.”

“Shit. You think he’s got like cancer or something? And they’re just like...just _praying_ for him.”

“No, that’s—I mean, that’s—”

“Crazy? Yeah. This whole thing is crazy. But maybe that’s why he got more religious in the first place. Why else would he just up and change his life like that? I mean I know he was always a Christian but he wasn’t like _that_.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. He starts pacing. None of this is making sense. If Bucky were _dying_ he would’ve told Steve. Steve knows that much, deep in his bones, all the other bullshit of the past few months aside. But something is definitely wrong. He needs to find out what.

“Did Becca say anything else to Jim?”

“Oh she’s said lots.”

“Like what?”

“She said Bucky came back from his first mission trip and had nightmares. Like wake everybody up in the house nightmares. She also said her parents don’t like you.”

“Well, that’s not news.”

His relationship with the Barnes family was always a little touch-and-go. Bucky’s parents would go through phases where they offered help and hospitality to his mother, although it usually came with an invitation to join their church. When that was declined, as it always was, things would get icy for a while, until the cycle started all over again.

“No, I mean they _really_ don’t like you,” Gabe says. “Like they used to ground Bucky and take away his stuff for being friends with you sometimes.”

Now there’s a lump in Steve’s throat.

“Anyway. I’m not sure what to think,” Gabe admits. “I’m not sure what to _do_ neither.”

“I do,” Steve says. Without hesitation. Without thinking about it much at all. “I know what to do.”

“What?”

The whole of his life narrows down to one thing and one thing only. He’s angry and he’s scared and he’s already on his way out the door.  

“I’m gonna go find him.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whewwww, finally! We're getting somewhere!


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

Steve ends his phone call with Gabe and immediately starts to strategize. He needs to pack and he needs a _plan._ Maybe he can manage to formulate the latter while attending to the former.

He flies into his bedroom and yanks a backpack out of his closet and starts shoving socks and t-shirts into it. He should really pack light, just in case, although he has no earthly idea how long he’ll be gone. Or how he’s getting there.

He’s been tryin’ his damndest not to take advantage of Dr. Erskine’s financial generosity, but he’s probably gonna need to spring for a plane ticket, and maybe another for Bucky if this goes the way he wants. He’s not entirely sure which airport to aim for from here. Dallas, most likely. Or maybe Tyler. Does Tyler even have an airport? He tries to picture Texas on a map. That missions compound is in the middle of nowhere: he can picture the address on the rejection letters he got this summer. There’s a tightness in his chest.

Focus.

How is he going to get from Dallas to the middle of nowhere? He’s not old enough to rent a car, so after the flight he’ll need to Uber as far as that’ll go and then he’ll need to hitchhike. Wouldn’t be the first time, he ain’t scared of it, although he should probably get some pepper spray—or maybe there’s a bus?

“Are you fleeing the country or something?”

Steve looks up from the dresser drawer he’s ransacked. Sam’s leaning in the doorway, freshly returned from his evening jog. Great. He was really hoping to slip out before his housemates could ask questions. Because Jesus: they’re always asking questions.

“My friend Bucky’s in some kinda trouble,” is all Steve says.  

Sam’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “The guy in _Kenya_? So you are _actually_ fleeing the country?”

“He’s in the Texas, not Kenya. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell it to me, huh?”

Criminy, here we go again. He likes Sam a whole lot, he really does. They get along like biscuits and gravy as roommates. The only drawback is that Sam is always trying to get Steve to “open up” and it drives Steve plumb crazy. Maybe it’s just because Sam is from California and everybody here talks about their “mental health” as casually as they do the weather, but it’s a little too much for Steve, who would prefer to not bleed his feelings all over his acquaintances.

Nat pesters him too, in her own way, to the point where Steve assumes they must have some kind of bet going to see who can crack him first. It’s bad enough that the school newspaper keeps trying to interview him as if he’s from another planet. Steve deflects it nicely, with as much southern charm as he can muster, of course. There’s no need to be rude.

Although he’s sorely tempted to be rude in this very moment.

“Look, I gotta go,” Steve says, zipping his backpack resolutely.

“Go where?” another voice says.

Sam and Steve both whip around. Nat’s the one standing in the doorway now, with an eyebrow quirked up curiously.

Steve opens his mouth to answer her, but then she says, “Just kidding—I heard everything,” and Steve throws up his hands.

“Of course you did.”

“I’ll let you borrow my car if you’ll wait until exams are over to go,” Nat says. It’s a shocking offer and Steve doesn’t really process it.

“I can’t wait that long,” he stammers. There’s that tightness in his chest again.

Sam looks horrified. “Dude, you have to finish the semester. We’ve only got like three days left.”

“I need to leave _now_.”

“Lemme get this straight,” Sam says. “You’re gonna blow off the biggest opportunity of your life to go help a guy who’s been ignoring you for the entire semester?”

“Yep,” Steve says. He might put his fist through a wall. Because, yep: that’s the truth of it.

The corners of Nat’s mouth are turned down into a confused frown. “If it’s this much of an emergency, shouldn’t you notify the authorities?”

“Cops ain’t good for much,” Steve says. Sam shrugs at Nat, like Steve has a good point. “And look,” Steve continues, “I don’t know for sure if an emergency. But if there’s a chance it might be—”

“So wait—what _do_ you know about the situation?” Sam asks.

“I told you. It’s a long story.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time to hear it on the ride there,” Natasha says.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Did you think I was going to let you go alone?” Nat asks incredulously.

“I wanna come too,” Sam pipes up.

“Excellent,” Nat says, all business-like. “If we take shifts we can be there in a day. Driver, navigator, and one asleep in the backseat. Rotate every 6 hours. Roughly four rotations and it’s done.”

“So long as we leave after finals,” Sam says, with an eye on Steve. It’s more like a guilt-inducing laser beam.

Steve can’t handle all of this interference.

He needs to _think._

No, wait.

He needs to _breathe._

“Get one of his inhalers,” Nat says quickly to Sam.

Steve lets out a strained wheeze.

“Where?!” Sam exclaims, sifting through the small explosion of laundry on Steve’s side of the room. He rifles through the nightstand next and finds one.

Nat is rubbing circles on Steve’s back. He sits down on the bed and she sits with him, just in time for Sam to hand him what he needs.

Even with the meds, it takes him a while to calm down. Nat won’t stop touching him and he can’t help but lean into it. He hasn’t been touched or hugged in so long. He doesn’t want to need it, but he does. He doesn’t want to need anything, but he does. He needs Buck and he needs help.

He thinks about having one of these attacks while trying to hitchhike in the dust of Texas. Or just how God damn tired he can get at the end of any given day. He resents how achey his bones feel even now.

“Okay,” Steve says breathlessly.

“Okay what?” Sam asks.

“You can come with me. If you really want to,” Steve says.

“Awesome,” Sam says. “I’ll make a playlist.”

  
  


*

  


to: jamesbbarnes@gmail.com

from: srogers@eia.edu

 

Your sister’s been leaking your real location to the townsfolk back home. So. I'm coming to see you. Don’t care if I get all the way out there and you tell me to get lost. Trip is still worth it.

See you soon.

-Steve

  



	11. Chapter 11

Country music— _real_ country music, that is—is just rock ‘n roll wearing work boots. Country music is just rock ‘n roll for anybody who knows how to bail hay or split wood or sell a whole mess of stanking chickens to one of Tyson’s subsidiaries. Or for anybody who knows just how loud a bull can scream while he’s bein’ turned into a steer.

They don’t play much real country on the radio, a fact which Steve has to explain to Nat and Sam when they start blaring that glossy stadium bullshit in the car first thing in the morning, thinking it’s for his benefit.

Steve sits up in the backseat. “The fella who wrote this song probably thinks Kubota is a type of sushi.”

“What _is_ Kubota?” Sam asks.

“Ah, nevermind,” Steve laughs. “Just turn that shit off and play some Johnny Cash instead, will ya?”

Sun’s coming up hot and bright over Tucson, after a late night drive on 1-10. Steve managed to get all his ducks in a row at school before he and Nat and Sam took off east, which feels like some kind of miracle.

They left campus looking like any other group of students headed off for winter break. But this is no normal winter break. This is a rescue mission.

Steve’s been turning it over in his head all night, while he was supposed to be sleeping: Bucky’s supposed illness. He just can’t make sense of it. There’s no way he’s dying like Gabe conjectured. That seems far too dramatic and unbearable to be true. But something _did_ put the fear of God in him. The fear of a very particular God. Something must’ve scared him right down to the bone.

Not knowing what makes Steve wanna tear his own hair out.

He needs coffee.

“Do they got Waffle House out here in the desert?” he asks.

“Pretty sure they’ve got Waffle House on the _moon_ ,” Sam says, “So I think we can find one in Arizona.” He fiddles with his phone and the GPS starts dictating orders, which Nat heeds. She’s in the driver’s seat and has been since their journey started.

Something about the way she holds her shoulders and fixes her eyes on the road ahead makes it seem like she’s just as worried about Bucky as Steve is, which doesn’t make much sense. She doesn’t even know him.    


 

 

Steve’s almost finished with his plate of bacon and eggs when Sam clears his throat and says, “So.”

Steve knew this conversation was coming. “Alright, alright,” he says, setting down his fork. After all the support they’ve shown him, he supposes they deserve to know the general scope of the situation. Maybe they can help him untangle it.

He’s not sure where to start.

They already know plenty about Bucky, much to his own embarrassment about running his mouth.

What they _don’t_ know is how Steve feels about Bucky, but that’s because Steve doesn’t even understand it himself, and he just can’t think about it right now. It’s too fucking much.

All he can do is stick to the facts.   

“I heard some of this through the grapevine,” he admits. “But apparently Bucky has some sort of sickness. I guess these missionary folk are trying to heal him of it. But they don’t even believe in going to the doctor. He could be in real trouble if it’s something serious.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “What do you think it is?”

“No clue. Buck’s always been healthy as a horse.”

“Maybe it’s not physical,” Nat offers. “Maybe it’s more like an addiction.”

“Buck’s not a drinker,” Steve says. “At least not to excess. But I get what you’re saying.”

She’s right: Pentecostals had a way of framing everything as a sickness. Everything from a bad attitude to the urge to look at boobs. Sin itself was a sickness and Jesus was the divine physician.

“Doesn’t really matter what it is, we need to get him out of there,” Nat says. “I guarantee they’re making whatever it is his _fault._ And that fucks with your head.”

Steve’s almost taken aback by how concerned she is. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“That’s because I am,” she says, and then she pauses to let the waitress pour them all more coffee. He’s not sure if she’s going to continue and it’s quiet for a moment. Sam pours a few creams into his cup and stirs.

“I grew up conservative too,” Nat eventually says.  “Me and Bucky probably have a lot in common. Unfortunately.”

  


 

It’s Steve turn to drive now, so Nat takes the passenger seat, and Sam conks out in the back from all the carbs. They drive in comfortable silence for a while, just watching for cactuses and road signs.

“Are you from the south?” Steve asks finally.

“I was born in Russia.”

“Huh?”

“My parents adopted me. Fundamentalists _love_ adoption. Nothing like rescuing little heathen babies and raising them up for The Kingdom.”

“Do you remember Russia?”

“No—I was only 15 months old when my parents brought me to their home.”

“Where was that?”

“North Carolina.”  

“So you _are_ southern,” Steve says, grinning. But Nat’s not grinning.

“No. The people who legally abducted me and brainwashed me are southern.”

That brings Steve up short. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just used to thinking of adoption as a good thing.”

“It can be. But it’s often...not.”

“You must be pretty mad. At your parents. Er—adoptive parents.”

“Part of me is. But part of me knows they were only doing what they were told. They tried to save me from hell because they were scared to death of hell themselves. It just goes around and around.”

“So how long did it take you to...feel okay?”

“Who says I do?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Let me put it this way,” Nat says, putting her feet up on the dash. “I feel a lot better now than I used to. It does get better. And I hope the same will be true for Bucky. But he may not be ready for us. I just want you to be prepared. He may not be ready to...leave.”

Even though it’s warm, all of Steve’s words freeze to the back of his throat.

Nat doesn’t push it any further. She just puts Johnny Cash on again as they cross the New Mexico state line.

 

_I got rid of the shackles that bound me and the guards that were always around me_

_There were tears on the mail mother wrote me in jail_

_But I'm free from the chain gang now_

  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Detailed Suicidal Ideation

 

_Save me, O God,_

_for the waters have come up to my neck._

_I sink in the miry depths,_

_where there is no foothold._

_I have come into the deep waters;_

_the floods engulf me._

_I am worn out calling for help._

 

After several weeks of fretful, drenching rain, a dark spot emerges on the chapel ceiling, blooming like a bruise. Incidentally, the grounds manager receives a divine revelation that maybe he should call a roofer.

Meanwhile other tiny leaks spring up in the kitchen walls and even Bucky’s not-bedroom, rendering it temporarily uninhabitable. Not that it matters—these days Bucky just sits up all night in the chapel anyway, bleary-eyed and smelling of Pine-Sol and thoroughly unable to sleep.

He’s been awake for three days straight.

He’s been wide awake, wracking his brain for inspiration about what to do next and avoiding dreams either too terrifying or too pleasurable for his soul to handle: hellfire, demons, screaming, the end of world. Laughter and starlight views from a truck bed. Sometimes it’s all mixed up together.

He is camped out in this chapel indefinitely, hoping for a sign. Because he wants to leave this place, but there’s no leaving. He wants to change himself, but there’s no changing. He is profoundly and utterly stuck.

He can’t go home without a miracle.

_Unless._

Unless he decides to go back to lying. It’s awful tempting, at this point, to just lie and say he’s healed. But after everything that’s happened, he would need to go a step further and offer some real proof. That pretty intern Bonnie’s been inordinately nice to him lately, going out of her way to say hi all the time and generally looking at him like he hung the moon in the night sky.

He could pull her aside and pour out his heart and explain how God’s been speaking to his spirit about marrying her. That’s how it works around here: there’s no dating. Just prayerful “courting” which generally means the guy just tells the girl he wants her and that’s that. I Now Pronounce You Man and Wife. 

He could put a ring on Bonnie’s finger before this Christmas and maybe give his parents a grandchild by the next one.

Perhaps _then_ they’d let him back in the house.

He pictures Bonnie in a white dress and their families gathered around, smiling wide like the wedding is the happiest day of their lives and not just Bucky’s escape hatch from his current suffering. He can walk away from this place, so long as he’s willing to wake up everyday for the rest of his life next to a stranger he can never fully love.

Bucky rests his elbows on the pew in front of him puts his head in his hands.

He’s just so tired. Of everything.

No matter what he does, he is going to hurt people.

Stay, go. It doesn’t matter.

One way or another.

He is going to ruin somebody’s life with his sins.

 

Repent.

That’s what they yelled during the exorcism.

Did that really happen?

It happened last week but Bucky doesn’t remember much.

Except every single detail.

They say he has a demon lurking near him still.

 

He thinks about Mark 5, when Jesus cast some demons out of a man and sent them into a big old herd of pigs. The pigs jumped off a cliff and drowned.

The pigs had the right idea.

If he’d had the guts years ago, when he realized what he was, he would’ve done it before enlisting in all this madness. They say it’s a grave sin to take your own life, but think of it this way: Jesus knew that Judas was gonna betray him to his death, and he just went right along with it, so wasn’t he guilty of suicide by passivity? It’s a blasphemous thought, but here’s the thing. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore. His fate was sealed a long time ago. He’s gonna end up in hell either way, no matter what, so do any other sins even matter?

And isn’t dying for the sake of others noble? And isn’t that what being a Christian is all about? Sacrifice?

He’ll need to make it look like an accident.

A gun’s too obvious. He could wreck a car but then somebody would be lose a car. There’s no medicine in this building to overdose on, that’s for sure. He could take a very long swim in that bloated lake out back. Not the retention pond, nobody would buy that. But that real lake, about a mile’s hike away. He’s a good swimmer but these things do happen sometimes. Especially when you’re as tired as he is.

 

He should do it right now.

Except that it’s 2AM and raining buckets.

Way too conspicuous.

 

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s supposed to be warm.

Tomorrow is Saturday and there’s free time.

The obituary writes itself in his head.

Maybe this is the miracle. It’s not so much a miracle for him as it would be for everyone else in his life. Steve probably hates him by now for being just another person who has abandoned him.

Suddenly he’s afraid, almost doubled over in pain. Not of death or dying, but of leaving this earth without saying goodbye to him. And his brothers—his sister—  

He can’t write a real goodbye note.

Too suspicious.

But he has to let them know that he loves them, one last time.

They deserve that much.

They deserve so much better than anything he could ever give them.

He stands up, emboldened but dizzy, and makes his way to Pierce’s office down the hall, which he knows will be locked at this hour. Luckily he also knows there’s a spare key hidden in the fake plant along the way.

He wonders what Pierce would do if he caught Bucky in here like this, rifling through his desk. Would he schedule another exorcism?

 There are so many phones in this drawer.

 His battery is understandably dead, so he plugs into the spare charger in the wall and sits on the floor and waits a few moments.

Finally he’s able to turn on the phone.

He has 23 unread emails from Steve.

His hands are shaking.

He reads the most recent message first, and bursts into tears.

 

He wants to write back _stay away, don’t come_ but if he knows _anything_ , it’s that you can’t tell Steve what to do.

 

*

 

Steve is running.  

He squishes through weedy pools of groundwater and sludge, wishing he’d worn combat boots instead of Chuck Taylors. The rain is coming down damn near horizontally and all he’s got is a flimsy heather-gray sweatshirt hood by way of a head covering. Maybe he should’ve listened to Nat and Sam, who are currently sleeping at a cheap hotel for the night, just a few miles away.

They suggested getting some rest and making the trek to the ministry compound in the light of day instead of the middle of the night. But Steve couldn’t help himself. As soon as they dozed off, he jumped in the car and took off into the darkness, as if pulled by some invisible force. Forget gravity. This was stronger.

Steve splashes up to the front of the building. For a ministry headquarters, it sure does resemble a shittily constructed warehouse. It’s creepy, honestly, the coldness of it, although that could just be from the darkness and Steve’s resolute hatred of the organization.

Yet there’s something even beyond that, something that makes the soaked hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up as he tries to open the front door. It’s locked, of course. With a hand to his forehead, he peeks in the front windows, setting his eyes on a dark foyer and some kind of front desk. This time it’s the hairs on his arms that prick up, disturbed by something unseen.

Steve’s not normally one for being superstitious, but it’s hard to outrun his mother’s Catholic roots. People think crossing your fingers is for luck. But he remembers her explaining that it was actually an ancient Catholic way to invoke the power of God’s protection against evil.

He would cross his fingers right now if he weren’t trying to yank open all the side doors of this entire building, one by one. By the time he’s circled back to the front, he seriously considers breaking a window. There are ways to do it quietly, plus the rain would drown out the sound, and unless there’s a security system in place—

Steve sees it out of the corner of his eye: a second building. How did he not notice it before?

In the dark, as he moves closer across a muddy yard, he can make out that it’s church-shaped, with a big awning outfront, under which he can hopefully take shelter. At this distance, he can actually see there’s a light on inside. That eerie feeling grows thicker.

He’s under the awning and the world goes still.

There’s somebody inside.

No, there is somebody coming _outside._

 

Bucky is fairly certain that he is hallucinating.

Because when he opens the chapel door, Steve is already standing there, soaked to the bone and shivering, the same way he looked another lifetime ago when Bucky pulled him out of that creek.

He’s just a ghost of a memory, warped by stress and longing. Bucky wouldn’t be the first person to skip too much sleep and start seeing things that are not there.

He’s not even sure if all the emails he just read were real. They were too fantastical, like a happy ending he’d made up for Steve in his absence. Art school, California, and a world where people fully appreciated Steve’s genius.

Bucky’s gone full-on Nebuchadnezzar crazy.

Steve’s eyes go wide and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth, like he’s trying to hide a gasp from Bucky. He looks Bucky over in the dim light like he’s not sure if what he’s seeing is real either.

“Ya look like shit,” Steve says finally.

Bucky cracks a smile at that, because that’s just the sort of thing Steve _would_ say. His imagination is at least accurate while it malfunctions. If he were really talking to Steve, he would reply to that jab with, “You look like a wet rat.”

So that’s exactly what he says, and Steve laughs louder than the rain for a second before saying, “Jesus—c’mere,” and pulling Bucky down toward him, into a hug. Bucky swings an arm around him and feels Steve’s soaked clothes press hard against his chest.

This feels real. Steve feels solid. So much so that Bucky staggers back, bewildered. His voice is a scrape: “You’re really here.”

“Of course I’m here, dumbass. I’ve been worried sick since you dropped off the map. Your sister made it out like you were _dying_ or somethin. What the hell’s been going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Bucky says, but it’s a lie and he knows it’s a lie and Steve knows it’s lie. That’s the wonderful and uncomfortable thing about being around Steve: he makes everything see-through.

 

“You don’t look fine.”  

If Steve didn’t know better (and maybe he doesn’t), he’d suspect Bucky of being on drugs. Buck’s lost at least 15 pounds and his eyes are bloodshot. Even in the dark Steve can make out strange markings on him—bruises that don’t make sense for someone who’s been working at a church all these months. Maybe if he were out on the mission field doing manual labor there’d be a reasonable explanation, but not now.  

“You don’t look fine,” Steve repeats. “You look...Jesus, Buck. What’d they do to you, huh?”

 

  
Bucky opens his mouth to reply but no words come out. He sways a little, dazed, and leans back against the church door to steady himself. He thinks back to a few hours ago, to the pews and his plan. A few hours ago he was waiting and hoping for a way out and now this angry angel is here, offering him exactly what he wants. He’s not sure if it’s temptation or salvation. Or maybe it’s the afterlife. Maybe he did the deed and doesn’t remember. Is he living or dead? Is this heaven or hell? _What’d they do to you, huh?_

“Bucky—stay with me, pal. Hey—”

 

Steve reaches out and places his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, fearing Bucky might collapse. He thought Bucky was going to be in bad shape, but he never expected _this_ , and he doesn’t even know exactly what’s been going on yet. Although he has his suspicions.

“Bucky, listen—I’m gonna tell you a story, okay? I told you this one before, a long time ago. When I was little, before you and me met, my Ma had this boyfriend. He seemed real nice at first, he promised my Ma all kinds of good stuff. He was gonna fix her whole broken single mom life, ya know? The world told my Ma she was trash but this guy was saying something else. He was acting like he could fix everything.

“But then he started making more and more demands. He bought her a car, so of course he got to decide where she drove it, right? And we lived in his big house, so of course he got to decide when and why we could leave it. And then he said her friends were no good and she needed to dump them. He made her feel crazy all the time. He made her feel like she didn’t know right from left. He made her feel lost just so he could be the one to save her. Sounds familiar, right?

“So one day,” Steve continues, “When that boyfriend wasn’t home, this friend of my Ma’s comes over and says get in the car, you can’t stay here. They fought about it and my Ma didn’t want to go at first but then she did. She grabbed me and some pictures and we left. So you get why I’m here, right?”

Bucky’s eyes are brimming with tears. “I can’t stay here.”

“You can’t stay here,” Steve repeats. “Will you come with me?”

“I _shouldn’t._ ”

“But will you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter goes to some intense places content-wise and I would be irresponsible if I didn't remind anyone struggling with abuse of any kind (spiritual, emotional, physical, etc) that there is help available.  
> If you need support, please call 1-800-273-8255 (Suicide Hotline), 1-800-799-7233 (Domestic Violence Hotline), or visit 7 Cups of Tea online for anonymous counseling. 
> 
> Also: leaving a strict religion is very much like leaving an abusive relationship. Your pain is real. Please take care of your heart.


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky shuts the passenger side door with a wet _thunk._

Steve turns the ignition and blasts the heat, hoping they can absorb a little warmth before it starts fogging up the windows. Visibility is already next to zero. All the same, even in the darkness and the rain, when they pull away from the compound, Bucky turns to take a last look at the place. There’s a hint of longing in his tired eyes, like some small (or maybe large) part of him wants to go back.

Steve’s not sure what to make of that.

“Where we headed?” Bucky asks, fiddling with his seatbelt.

“Motel. You look like you could use some rest.”

Bucky nods.

It hits Steve then, just how much Bucky must still trust him. Without knowledge of a plan, without anything more than the wet clothes on his back and a cell phone, Bucky just hopped into an unknown car with him, in defiance of his parents and God and who knows what else. Or maybe it’s just a testament to how bad off he is.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“Dunno.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Bucky shuts his eyes like he’s trying to solve a difficult math equation. “Couple days ago, maybe. I fasted a lot.”

Steve digs his nails into the steering wheel. Anger and questions bubble up inside of him. He’s a pot of water about to boil over.

“Did your parents make you come here?” he asks.

“Not exactly.”

“I’ll take that as a _yes_ ,” Steve says, sharp as glass shards. He’s never been a fan of Bucky’s parents, but this moment—soaked in the middle-of-nowhere-Texas with a very banged up and disoriented Bucky by his side—this is the moment he goodly and truly _hates_ them.

Because how could anyone look at Bucky and not be proud of him, just as he was? They were always shaming him for not being Christian enough, for listening to “worldly” music, for having any interests whatsoever outside of their church. When they were kids, he got grounded for two weeks after they found goddamn Pokemon cards in his backpack. You would’ve thought they’d found crack baggies. Is this what the whole missionary business was all about in the first place? Proving something to them? Finally earning the approval that should’ve been given freely?

“They didn’t make me come here,” Bucky reiterates. He curls inward and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hard. “Well. They sorta did. I don’t know. I don’t even know. I don’t know _anything_ anymore.”

“Hey,” Steve says, much more gently, “That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it tonight. Let’s just get some food in you.”

He reaches his right arm behind him and sifts around in the backseat for that box of Clif bars Sam bought at a gas station. “Here,” he says, tossing Bucky one.

When he hears a wrapper crinkling beside him, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief through his nose. Bucky chewing is practically music to his ears. “Eat the whole box if you wanna.”

“Might make me sick if I do.”

“Well, I’ll clean it up.”

“Whose car is this?” Bucky asks, mouth full. “You’re not old enough for a rental. And please don’t tell me you stole it.”

Steve chortles at that, because _that_ sounds like Bucky, the Bucky he knew before. His Bucky. His Bucky?

“The car belongs to Nat. She came with me, Sam too—they’re my—”

“—Roommates,” Bucky says, remembering.

“So you _did_ read my emails,” Steve says. He’s happy about it, but there’s still that anger seeping through, from so many long months of confusion. Steve feels like an asshole for being sore about it and Bucky seems to have lost the ability to speak.

Finally he says, “They took my phone. I didn’t see your messages until a few hours ago, after I broke in and took it back. And then you showed up. Timing’s weird.”

“Shit, I’ll say—”

“It’s like I said. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t—I don’t even know if this is real. They messed with my head.”

“I wanna go burn that place down, you know that right? Once it stops fucking raining.”

“That does sound like you,” Bucky says.

The rain slows when they pull into the motel parking lot. After finding a spot as close as possible to the door, Steve shuts off the car and searches for the room key. It fell from the dash to the floor at some point.

They slip into the motel room as quietly as possible, thankful that the sounds of the rain cover any faint squeaks or bumps. He doesn’t wanna wake Sam and Nat. They’re conked out in the same bed, which upon reflection means that Nat must’ve known what Steve was gonna do from the moment they got into town. She knew he’d take off. She knew he’d bring Bucky back in the middle of the night like this. For all Steve knows, she’s probably awake right now.

Steve gently grabs Bucky’s forearm and leads him to the bathroom.

“I’ll get you some dry clothes,” Steve whispers, shutting Bucky inside. Then a dim rectangle of light outlines the door.

Some of Steve’s clothes might actually fit Buck now, with the weight loss. He rummages in his duffle for his most oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. It’ll have to be enough for now.

“Buck?” he whispers, back at the door. Knocking seems too loud. Bucky cracks it open and takes the clothes automatically, like some kind of prisoner in a cell being given a bread ration. The sight of it makes Steve’s heart plummet into the cheap motel carpet.

He changes into dry clothes himself in the dark as quickly as he can. The rectangle of light disappears and Bucky walks back out in the darkness.

“C’mere,” Steve whispers, pulling him by the arm again to navigate.

Bucky collapses into the bed and curls into a ball with his back to Steve and his face toward the window and the A/C unit. Steve slips under the covers gingerly, half-wondering if he should sleep on the floor or something. They’ve shared a bed a thousand times but it feels different now.

All thoughts of giving Bucky space disappear when Steve hears a very pronounced sniff. Bucky was never much of a crier, so when he starts shedding tears again, it takes Steve by surprise and honest to God frightens him.

“What can I do, Buck?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers hoarsely. “I’m so sorry. I never should've left you like that. I didn’t know what I was doing. I still don’t. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Nobody fucking knows what they’re doing.”

Bucky chokes on a laugh and then keeps crying, loud enough now that Steve gets worried about the others waking up. Steve surrenders to pure instinct and wraps himself around Bucky, his chest to Bucky’s back, his arms around his middle. For a second Bucky tenses, but it passes in a flash.

“I’m sorry too,” Steve says. He’s practically speaking directly into Bucky’s ear. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

There’s another pronounced sniff. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh, you know me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, relaxing into him. “I guess I do.”

  
  


*

  
  
  


By the time the sunlight is hitting Steve’s eyes through the blinds, Bucky is gone.

Steve sits up, heart hammering.

But then he realizes _everyone_ is gone. Sam and Nat’s bed is empty too. He whips out his phone to text Sam.

 

_Where are y’all??_

_-The continental breakfast is free. We like free._

_Is Bucky with you?_

_-Of course. Dude just ate his second waffle._

 

Steve lets out a sigh of relief that can probably be heard from space. He throws on some real clothes and flies out the door.

The motel lobby is small, run-down, and mostly empty. There’s a frazzled young family waiting in line to get cereal and an old man sipping coffee and watching a news program on the television. And then there’s a table in the back where Bucky is sitting, in Steve’s slightly too-small pajamas, talking with Nat and Sam like they all already know each other. Steve folds his lips under his teeth to keep from smiling too big at the sight.

“So I guess you’ve met,” Steve says.

“We already like him better,” Sam says. “Way less of a smartass.”

“Give him time,” Steve says. He sits down and drinks directly from Sam’s styrofoam coffee cup. Sam gives Bucky a look of pure exasperation.

“You see? You see what I’ve had to deal with all semester.”

Bucky looks at Steve so fondly that it makes Steve’s stomach flip. He hops up to grab a biscuit from the warmer and shake it off.

Nat joins him and speaks quietly. “Was it drugs? The _illness._ ”

“No. Not that I can tell.”

“He looks rough.”

“Well, that’s because he’s been held hostage by a bunch of religious wackos who think not eating makes God happy.”

“Now _that’s_ an illness,” Nat says.

“He was too exhausted to really tell me much last night.”

“I figured.”  

“Might be awhile before we get the whole story out of him. He doesn't seem ready—”

“Ready for what?” Sam calls out.

Nat and Steve make their way back to the table, hands full of donuts and biscuits and fruit. “For a Walmart run,” Nat invents.

“Yeah,” Steve says, rolling with it, “We should get you some more clothes and whatever else you need. A toothbrush.”

“Your breath does kinda suck,” Sam admits in Bucky’s direction.  

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Your face sucks.”

“I’m going to have to deal with this the whole ride back to LA, aren’t I?” Nat says, mostly to Steve. But Bucky looks up at her.

“Is...is that the plan? To go back to LA?”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” Steve says cautiously, “But if there’s somewhere else you need to be. We can try to make that happen.”

He doesn’t want to come out and say it: that he’d follow Bucky anywhere. That wherever Bucky wants to go is where he belongs, school be damned. As much as he wants to finish, he knows what his top priority is right now, and it’s sitting right in front of him eating a waffle. Maybe it’s not the healthiest mindset, but it’s the truth.

“I can’t go back to Brooklyn,” Bucky says. “So, I might as well come with you.”

“You sure?” Sam asks. “No pressure. You’ve got options.”

“Yeah, options. Like go with y’all or be homeless.”

“Homeless?” Steve asks. “Why would you be homeless?”

Bucky rubs at his eyebrow, agitated. “Because my parents don’t want me in their home and I don’t got a job or a toothbrush or a damn dime to my name.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t they want you in their home?” Steve asks. He’s that boiling pot of water again, indignant on Bucky’s behalf, hot and roiling.

“Complicated.”  

Steve wants to demand that he _un_ complicated it, but Nat puts her foot on his under the table as a gentle warning.

“You can stay with us as long as you want,” Nat says. “Although it definitely breaks some kind of school bylaw.”

“I don’t want anybody to get into trouble,” Bucky says sheepishly.

“Bucky, c’mon,” Steve says, almost laughing. “Have you _met_ me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he’s got that intense, fond look again, “Unfortunately.”

“So it’s settled then,” Nat decides. “To LA.”

“After we get this stank dude a toothbrush,” Sam adds, “And maybe a shower.” Bucky throws a grape at him, right at his face.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

Sam Wilson can be quite the entertainer. He takes it upon himself to keep the whole car in lively spirits for the first hour of their trek, with games and questions and plenty of sarcastic jokes about the endless line of Texan stripmalls they zoom past. Bucky and Nat’s laughter seem to indicate they’re having fun, but Steve struggles to play along after a while, given the last 72 hours. He doesn’t want to be a killjoy, but he can’t pretend like everything is fine either. They drove all this way to rescue Bucky from what appears to be a wacko cult and Steve still doesn’t have the answers he craves.

“If you could have a superpower, what would it be?” Sam asks from the driver’s seat.

“The power to make you shut up,” Bucky replies.

“I’m dropping you off at the next animal shelter I see,” Sam threatens.

They’ve been picking on each other non-stop since meeting. Steve knows this is actually a good sign: the apparent animosity indicates just the opposite. It’s a trait Steve assumes comes from having a whole mess of siblings, which they both do.

Nat turns toward the backseat from her shotgun spot and says, “I want power to teleport out of here. Sorry boys.”

“Noo, dollface, don’t leave us,” Bucky says. He goes so far as to wink at her before she turns back toward the open road, smiling. And wow, that feels familiar. Seeing him flirt should do Steve’s heart some good. Yet it just adds to the frustration, the unanswered questions, the confusion. There’s an elephant in the car with them that only he seems to notice. How long are they going to pretend this situation is at all normal?

“How about you, Steve?” Sam prompts. “What power do you want?”

“Mind reading,” he says, and his eyes lock with Bucky’s, dead serious and imploring. “There’s just some stuff I’d like to know.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re covered in bruises.”

The temperature in the car drops about 20 degrees instantly. Maybe he’s a first-rate asshole for bringing shit up, unprompted, but he’s about to tear his hair out otherwise. He expects Nat to scold him, or for Sam to charge ahead with a subject-change, but there’s nothing but silence for a moment.

“They didn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Bucky finally says.

“So, what? Those are from falling down the stairs?”

“Obstacle courses,” Bucky explains simply. “It was like military school. Jumping, crawling, climbing. I had drills everyday, sometimes a couple times.”

“As punishment?”

“As...an opportunity for character growth.”

“That sounds rough, man,” Sam offers carefully.

“Not much worse than summer camp,” Bucky shrugs.

“Summer camp?” Steve questions incredulously. “Summer camp? Last time I checked, they let people eat and sleep at summer camps.”

“Fasting was my choice.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes, foggy and frustrated. “It _was_. It was all my choice, okay? I chose to be there.”

“ _Why_ would you choose that?”

Bucky lowers his voice when he says what comes next, pleading and desperate, just to Steve: “I wanna tell you everything, I do. I just don’t know how to yet. Gimme some time to figure out _how_.”

“Okay,” Steve says, guilt crashing over him for making Bucky’s face do _that._ “I’m sorry. It can wait. I can wait.”

Bucky looks like he might cry again, but then he says, “Can we get some music going?” with a false-cheeriness that let’s Steve know the conversation is officially over.

“Sure,” Nat says gently. “Any requests?”

“No idea,” Bucky says, fiddling with his phone. He turns it off and tosses it in to his bag. “Just pick something. Anything.”

  
  
  


The rain slows from a deluge to a trickle and then down to nothing around Midland, Texas. Incidentally, this is also around the time Bucky decides to curl into a ball in the backseat and stop talking altogether. His light seems to grow dimmer the closer they get to the New Mexico state line and Steve can’t help but feel wretched for pushing him earlier.  

Steve _would_ be worried Bucky was angry at him, after that conversation. He’d be worried sick about it, if Bucky’s head weren’t practically in his lap right now. Okay, it isn’t in Steve’s lap exactly, no way, but it’s still pressed up against him. Buck’s dark tangled hair is flush with the leg of Steve’s jeans. And well, that was all right.

Steve gets a strong hankering to pet his head, to soothe him, but thinks better of it, because Bucky seems to relish physical affection one minute and then get withdrawn and jumpy about it the next. He’d hugged Steve for no damn reason at that last rest stop and then flinched later when Steve had merely touched his arm to get his attention. He’s like a pickup being thrown into the wrong gear at random times.

His story goes back and forth too: Bucky said the ministry messed with his head, which Steve interpreted as them controlling him, but then he said being there was totally his choice. He seemed unsure of the truth of his own situation. So no wonder he didn’t know how to express it.

In the absence of a real explanation though, it’s getting difficult for Steve to stop his imagination from filling in the gaps. He stares out the window into the inky black of this west Texas night and creates worst case scenarios, the worst of them all being that Bucky won’t recover.

Because it wasn’t just Teen Mania. It wasn’t just being a missionary. Bucky’s problems with religion started way before all that. Bucky’s mind got filled with all those terrible ideas when he was just a baby practically. It’s like all that fear of hellfire was hidden in the deepest parts of his mind, like a bear trap, waiting to snare him if he dared wander too far away from his parents’ Bible-thumpin’ wishes.

He’s got a long road ahead of him. Steve’s gonna need to be patient as a saint, because Lord only knows how long it’ll take before they get to the bottom of this.

“He asleep?” Nat asks quietly from the front.

Bucky’s breathing is even and slow. Steve can see his eyelids flutter just a little.

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to rotate drivers soon,” she says, “But he needs sleep. So maybe when he wakes up.”

“Speaking of rotating,” Sam says, “I’m going to bunk with Nat when we get back to school. So you and him can share a room.”

“No way,” Steve says. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m fine with it,” Nat assures.

“He doesn’t wanna displace anybody,” Steve says. “He can have my spot and I’ll take the couch in the living room.”

“I told you he’d say that,” Nat says to Sam.

“Seriously,” Steve reiterates, “I don’t mind the couch.”

Steve can practically  _hear_ Sam roll his eyes when he says, “Look, you can do this the hard way or the easy way. I’m moving upstairs. Deal with it. Just let people help you.”

“It’s too much—you don’t even know him. Why’re you being so...nice?”

“Let’s just say I have my reasons,” Sam says, too mysteriously for Steve’s liking.

“Oh, great. _More_ secrets.”

“What, like you don’t have secrets of your own?”

“But I _don’t_ ,” Steve says, and Sam actually laughs at that, loudly enough that Bucky stirs for a moment, and then nuzzles back into the side of Steve’s leg.

“Shhhhh,” Nat scolds, and they both drop it, at least for the time being. Steve’s pretty determined to stare out the window into the darkness for a few hours, and he almost drifts off at one point, but then he hears his phone start to ring from down near his feet. Without thinking much about it, without even paying attention to who it is, he accepts the call as quickly and quietly as possible, to keep the noise from waking Bucky.

“Hello?”

“Is James with you?” says a not-so-quiet voice. It has the unmistakable timbre and commanding accent of Mr. Barnes. Steve can’t seem to make his mouth work.

“I asked you a question. Is James with you?”

“His name is Bucky.”

“I know you’ve got something to do with this,” Mr. Barnes hisses. “They told us James ran off.  I’ve been trying to call him all day. Is he with you?”

“I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“You listen here, boy,” Mr. Barnes yells, “I never shoulda let him hang out with you in the first place. Shoulda put my foot down all those years ago. Jimmy never back-talked us until he met you. And he sure as hell never acted like no faggot until you started perverting him. You poisoned him. Ain’t no other explanation for him being a homosexual. This is _your_ fault.”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?” Steve says, holding the phone a little further away from his face.

“Don’t play dumb. I know you turned him into what he is. I know what you two have been up to all these years. I see it now. It’s an abomination. I won’t have it in my household, ya hear? Tell James he’s got a choice. He can go back and get right with God or he can face the consequences. You tell him that, you little—”

Steve’s brain is scrambling to create a comeback for whatever insult is about to be hurled at him when he feels someone grab the phone right out of his hand.

It’s Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything to his dad, just presses the End Call button and sits up straight in his seat. “Stop the car.”

“How much of that did you hear?” Steve asks darkly.

“All of it,” Bucky says. “He never did master the art of the inside voice, did he?”

“Wait, what?” Sam says, confused. “Who was that on the phone?”

“ _Stop the car_ ,” Bucky says again. His breath is shallow and ragged. “ _Pull over.”_

“Dude, we’re in the middle of a desert. Wha—”

“LET ME OUT.”

Sam veers to the side of the highway and hits the breaks, bewildered, as Bucky throws his door open and makes a break for it. Steve immediately unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to go after him.

“Give him a minute,” Nat orders.

Steve’s not having it, not now. “What if he’s about to run off?”

Nat grab’s his arm. “If you don’t give him a minute, he really might.”

“Okay— _clearly_ I’ve missed something,” Sam says.

“Bucky’s dad just outed him to the whole car,” Nat says to Sam. “Well, except you to apparently, who managed to escape the horrible sound of that man’s bigoted voice.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “So it’s like we thought.”

“Exactly like we thought, unfortunately.”

“ _What?_ ” Steve says, his eyes batting between Nat and Sam like he’s watching a round of ping pong.

“You really didn’t suspect this?” Sam asks him disbelievingly. “I mean...you never thought maybe _this_ was the thing he was trying to cure with magic Jesus power?”

“Bucky’s not—no way. And we _never_ —it’s not like that. I mean—sometimes I got confused, but he’s not—”

The more he rambles, the less convinced he is of anything. But there is no mistaking the message of that phone call, or Bucky’s reaction to it, or his own feelings over the years in light of it.

_I know what you two have been up to all these years. I see it now._

He’s startled and shaky. It feels like when Nat would sneak up on him in the apartment. How long has this thing, this terrifying thing, been standing in the room with him without him noticing? It’s not just that he thinks about men sometimes, or even that he thinks about Bucky like that. It’s that their friendship isn’t exactly a normal one.

He doesn’t get pissed off and possessive about Gabe Jones, for example. He doesn’t send Dum Dum a thousand stupid emails, updating him on every detail of his day. He doesn’t paint countless pictures of Nat. He doesn’t go to bed every night and wake up every morning thinking of Sam. It’s one thing to miss your friend. But it’s another thing entirely to ache for one with the kind of ferocity that compels you to drive across the country just to see his face. And that’s not even getting into Bucky’s behavior.

Bucky had tons of friends, good ones, but he never risked as much for any of them, the way he did for Steve. He never celebrated little milestones with them. Bucky was always wanting to do big dumb special things every year to commemorate the day they met, or their first baseball game, or their first beach trip. He wouldn’t call them anniversaries, but that’s exactly what they were. He’d make Steve playlists. He’d sleep over every chance he got. He’d go to doctor’s appointments with Steve and wait hours. He’d encourage Steve to ask girls out, but then get weird when Steve actually got crushes on them.

Bucky had asked Steve to be his roommate all those summers ago, but he didn’t ask in a normal way. He said, “Let’s just do this for the rest of our lives,” while they were practically snuggling, but pretending like they weren’t, just like they were doing in the backseat of this car tonight.

Steve is forced to stare at the reality of their connection. He’s only ever glanced at it, out of the corner of his eye, but it’s too much to ignore now, and he’d be a hypocrite if he did. He’s been demanding straight answers from everyone around him, yet he’s kept secrets from himself. So he lets himself see it, lets himself drag the truth out from the shadows and into the blinding, terrifying light. There’s no other rationalization he can cling to anymore for the the way things are between them. They are in love.

“Oh my God,” Steve says.

“AAaannd he finally gets it,” Sam announces.

“All things considered,” Nat says, “I thought it would take him until _at least_ Arizona.”

“Oh my God,” Steve says again. He feels like he might pass out. “I’m such a idiot.”

Nat shakes her head. “Listen. You’re not. Denial is just the brain’s way of protecting us. It wasn’t safe for you to think about this before.”

“It really wasn’t,” Steve says, reliving every punch to the gut he’s ever taken.

“It wasn’t safe for Bucky either,” Nat says. “It probably still doesn’t feel safe for him. It might not for a long time.”

“Right. I can be patient.”

Steve launches himself out of the car without another word, fully expecting to have to hike miles into the desert to find Bucky. He’d cross another state line for him. Hell, he’d cross the country all over again, the world even, twice over. But it turns out Buck’s only camped out a few yards away, sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. The sand and rocks crunch under Steve’s feet.

Bucky looks up, face wet, but no longer crying. “Did you know?” he asks. “That I’m…”

Bucky trails off and Steve freezes at what he assumes is the question. He lets the crickets literally chirp.

“No,” he finally says, because it’s the most honest answer he can come up with. He didn’t know Bucky was gay before just now. He did know and he didn’t. He knew without knowing that he knew. He’s a moron. They both are. But they were only doing the best they could.

“Guess dad did me a favor then,” Bucky says bitterly.

“How’s that?”

“Well, cat’s out of the bag, ain’t it? Now I don’t gotta figure out a way to tell you.”

“I don’t want his version of the story.”

“Ain’t ready to give you mine just yet,” Bucky says, wiping his nose on his sleeve and staring up at the starless sky. They’re too close to the highway lights to see anything but haze.  

“I know. That’s not why I’m out here.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I just wanted to make sure a rattlesnake didn’t getcha.”

Bucky cracks a smile at that, at least. He still won’t look Steve in the eye and it hurts like another punch to the stomach. But at least Bucky’s here, in front of him, not running anymore. They’re done running. They couldn’t outrun this even if they tried.

“Let’s get you back in the car,” Steve suggests. Bucky walks about a foot behind him, like his soul has a limp. Yet when they get back to the vehicle, Bucky surprises him by asking, “Can I drive? I really want to.”  

“Sure thing,” Nat says, handing over the keys, while Steve takes shotgun. There’s the sound of the engine starting and deep sigh, and then Bucky is steering them toward California, dawn light creeping up in the rearview mirror.

  



	15. Chapter 15

 

Bucky drives like a bat outta hell, speeding and stirring up dust. Steve tries to commandeer the driver’s seat around Phoenix, but Bucky flat out refuses, insisting on chauffeuring them the whole rest of the journey.

“Y'all already did your share of drivin’ to pick me up,” he says apologetically over lunch. His mouth is still a little full. “So this is only fair.”

Steve would argue but there’s no use, plus Bucky seems happy enough and nobody wants to squelch that, especially not after overhearing that phone call. That horrifying yet oddly liberating phone call. Steve replays it in his head as they sit at a rest stop picnic table, eating the peanut butter sandwiches they’d packed earlier.

He replays all the awful things Mr. Barnes said, and the way Bucky had grabbed the phone from his hand. Most importantly, he remembers what Nat said afterward: _Denial is just the brain’s way of protecting us. It wasn’t safe for you to think about this before._

Now that it’s safer, it’s _all_ he can think about: the way he feels for Bucky and the way Bucky seems to feel for him. Bucky is sitting awful close to him at the moment, completely of his own volition. A moment ago he’d playfully pressed his thumb to the corner of Steve’s mouth to wipe away some lingering jelly. Their shared lovesickness is just so _obvious_ now that he sees it, now that he has the strength to look. He wonders if his mother noticed it when they were young.

She must’ve. Because he distinctly remembers her telling him not to worry about chasin’ dates. She said the right partner would come along when the time was right. Partner, not girl. He thought it was a metaphor about the 8th grade dance, an event that had worried him into a cold sweat at the time. But maybe it was more than that.

“When the time is right, you’ll know.”

Well, the timing wasn’t exactly perfect, nor would it ever be, unless society decided to magically change this fucking instant. All the same: Steve _knows._ Steve knows that there’s only one person in this world for him.

It’s a terrifying thought.

Because what if after all this, Bucky rejects him? What if Bucky can’t get over his fears of hellfire and the angry God who promises to send them there? It’s like he’s in a love triangle with a particularly tetchy deity. As close as he and Bucky are, Bucky did meet that tetchy deity first.

But God of the Bible-thumpers is a wife beater, plain and simple, hear you me. All those songs they sing about being unworthy of his love and mercy sound just like the things his momma used to say about that asshole boyfriend of hers back in the day. He made her feel like a wretch so he could show all that amazing grace. How sweet the fucking sound.

It just don’t make no sense, telling people they’re broken and wrong unless they give their hearts to Jesus. Jesus never told nobody that in the first place.

Come to think of it, Jesus didn’t seem to have much to do with Christianity, period. And wasn’t he just teaching what plenty of other religions had taught? When you put his sayings side-by-side with Buddha's, you start thinking Jesus would've been sent to the principal's office for being a first-rate plagiarizer. There is nothing new under the sun.

It's like those Russian nesting dolls, the kind Nat keeps on her shelves. Matryoshka. Religion keeps building bigger and bigger dolls to encase the tiniest little truth: do unto others.

That's it, that's the heart of it, when you pop open all those painted wooden bodies. The golden goddamn rule. Steve believes in that tiniest doll, so little he could swallow it like a pill. The other ones? Might make for good fire starters on a cold night.

How did Bucky’s parents look him in the eye when he was just a child and tell him he’s only worthy of love _if._ If, if if. Their idea of love came with a vicious _or else_ and it makes Steve sick, makes him wanna—

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he realizes he’s breathing a bit too fast for sitting absolutely still.

“You sure?” Sam asks, “Cause you look like you’re about to punch somebody.”

“That’s just his face,” says Bucky.

Steve snaps out of it. “Sorry. I was just thinking...about everything.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“You’re not going to eat your crusts?” Bucky says to Nat, aghast and clearly changing the subject.

“You want ‘em?”

“Sure—it’s the healthiest part.”

Bucky starts inhaling Nat’s leftovers, which is honestly a great sight to see, before Nat clears her throat and says, “That’s actually a myth. That crusts are healthier.”

Bucky stops chewing.

“Yeah, it’s just one of those things parents say to kids to get them to clean their plates,” explains Sam.

Bucky finishes swallowing and looks to Steve as if to say, _are you hearing this bullshit?_ Steve feels like a traitor because he’s been aware of the truth for a while. His mother was a scientist, after all.

“But,” Bucky says, “Isn’t that why it’s brown? Because of all the nutrients?”

Steve cringes internally, embarrassed on Bucky’s behalf. “It’s just brown because it’s more cooked than the inside.”

“...Oh.”

For the briefest of seconds, Bucky looks like he might cry again. But then he’s laughing. It’s quiet at first, but it just gets louder and louder and quite honestly a little crazy sounding, which must makes Steve laugh too, and then they’re all laughing and Bucky is putting his head down on the table and covering it with his arms.

He keeps laughing. 

Sam’s eyes grow about three sizes and lock with Steve’s. He mouths, “Is he okay?” and Steve just shrugs. Because yeah, he’s fine, he’ll be okay, but also: No. Of course not. He’s laughing like a maniac and shaking like a leaf.

His head finally pops back up. “Can I ask y’all for a huge favor?”

“Sure thing,” Sam says immediately and appeasingly, eyes still wide.

“Can we stop at Joshua Tree? That big park?”

“Of course,” Nat says. Her relief that the favor is not something more absurd is palpable.

“It’s not too far outta the way,” Steve assures. “And it looks real good at sunset. Or so I've heard. I think we can make it in time. You still wanna drive?”

Bucky says “yes,” quickly, sharply, with no laughter left in his voice. Once they’re back in the car, Sam asks him conversationally, “So is Joshua Tree on your bucket list or something?”

“I don't really have a bucket list,” Bucky says. “It's just...I've been all over the world and alls I got to really see was churches. I just wanna see something else. Anything else."   
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

They pull up to the northwest entrance of Joshua Tree National Park and a grey-haired hippie lady smiles and asks Bucky to cough up $15, which he doesn’t have. He blushes with shame and stammers for about two seconds before Sam says, “Here you go, man,” from the backseat and hands him three $5 bills.

“Thanks,” says Bucky, driving on toward a spot inside the park called Key’s View, trying his best to push through the embarrassment of being broke and basically homeless.

Being a charity case messes with the paradigm he’s been taught. He’s used to being the giver of help, not the receiver. He can practically hear his father’s voice, explaining how _Christians_ are supposed to be the bastions of altruism and self-sufficiency, an example to all the selfish and irresponsible heathens of the world. _Christians_ help the less fortunate for the good of The Kingdom. He thinks about the logistics of mission work: a church gives food and other basic necessities to poor people in the hopes that they’ll convert. It’s a bartering system. Bucky is the poor person in _this_ scenarios. So what does Sam want out of this situation? Sam says he’s agnostic. Does any help really come for free?

Sam seems especially in-tune with Steve, always thinking ahead about what Steve might need or like and going the extra mile for him. Truth be told, it’s starting to make Bucky a little wary. On the one hand: it’s nice to see other people recognize just how great Steve is. On the other hand: who is this guy?

What does he want with Steve? He’s always bringing up inside jokes and touching Steve on the shoulder. And why would he give up his bedroom for the sake of two dudes he barely knows? Maybe he just wants an excuse to shack up with the redhead, except he seems weirdly physically uninterested in the her, despite her maybe being the most beautiful woman alive. None of this makes sense.

And what does _she_ want? Nat flirts, but Bucky can always tell when a girl is flirting for sport versus communicating a real interest. She’s not trying to seduce him, or anyone else in this car for that matter. She seems protective of Steve, and of Sam, but most of all of _him_ , and that also doesn’t make sense. He can feel suspicion blooming in his mind, prickly as the cacti they pass.

“Why’re y’all so nice to me?”

It’s a dumb question; it comes out of his mouth so randomly and quickly that it sounds accusatory.

Sam harrumphs. “I’m not nice.”

“You know what I mean. Why y’all helping me out like this? You don’t even know me.”

“You’re Steve’s best friend,” Sam says. “The friend of my friend is my friend.”

“Yeah, but you don’t really know Steve either,” Bucky says, and he realizes too late how possessive it sounds. He wishes he’d never opened his stupid jealous mouth. Even though it’s true. Sam _doesn’t_ know Steve that well. Sam will _never_ know Steve like he does. But Sam has also never abandoned Steve the way he did.

“Bucky,” Steve starts, “What’re y—”

Sam cuts him off. “Hey, it’s cool. I get it. You’ve been through all this shit and then there’s some random person trying to take care of you. You just wanna know why.”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. His eyes should be on the dusty road ahead, but they keep flicking up to the rearview mirror to get a better view of Sam and Nat in the backseat. They’re giving each other conspiratorial looks.

“Fine—I’ll go first,” Sam concedes. “So I used to be a raging asshole.”

Steve’s head whips toward Sam. “What? That’s not possible.”

“Oh, believe me. It’s possible. I was the guy calling other dudes “pussy” and telling everybody to grow a pair. I was the type of guy who would’ve harassed Steve in middle school. I probably would’ve tried to stuff him into a locker. Sorry Steve—”

Steve doesn’t look offended or betrayed, just surprised. Under normal circumstances, this would be a prime moment to pick on Sam, but Bucky’s too curious to waste time with banter.

“Anyway—I went to a different school before the Erskine Institute, for my freshman year. I was at UCLA. My major was undeclared because I didn’t know what I wanted, other than to get a degree and make lots of money. Buy flashy cars, impress girls, you know how it is.”

Nat coughs, but her cough sounds an awful lot like, _“Toxic masculinity.”_

“Gesundheit,” Sam says. “So at UCLA, I had this roommate, Riley. Really quiet guy. Kept to himself. Honestly, I thought he was lazy. Hardly ever cleaned and only left his room for class. I never asked him about his feelings or life or anything deep. It’s just not what you do. Especially when you’re trying to be cool.”

Sam pauses for a second to look out the window and clear his throat. “He went home for spring break. Only...he didn’t come back. Turns out he OD’d. I talked to some people from his hometown and they said it was probably intentional, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Shit,” Steve says.

“It just changed everything for me. I’m not saying it was all my fault, but it was a wakeup call. I was partly responsible. I could’ve helped. After all that, I dropped out of school for a while. Did a lot of soul searching. Now I’m an art student who gets over-involved in my roommates’ lives. Hi.”

Nat smiles at him, rubs his shoulder, like she already knew this story and is proud of him for telling it.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles. “That’s awful.”

“Nah, _Nat’s_ story is awful,” Sam says.  

“Only the first seventeen years of it,” Nat says. “The rest has been pretty great.”

“What happened in the first seventeen years?” Bucky asks.

“I’ll tell you at the top of the mountain—,” she says, distracted suddenly. “—Turn in here.”

Bucky pulls into a mostly empty parking lot. He turns off the car and they all spill out of it, relieved to be able to stretch their legs again and smell fresh air.

It’s warm but breezy. Nat stays glued to his side as they hike up the steep path from the parking lot to the lookout point, her red hair flying around her face. Finally she surrenders and pulls it into a ponytail.

The trek is short enough that Steve can probably handle it, although that knowledge doesn’t stop Bucky from constantly and instinctively looking back to check on him.

“He’s fine,” Nat says knowingly.

Bucky shakes his head, guilty. “His back is always hurting. I worry about him sitting in the car all this time. He’s gotta be feeling it.”

“All things considered, I don’t think he minds. I think he’s just happy to have you back.”

Bucky looks at his feet. “So what happened during those first seventeen years?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just my hyper-Christian parents trying to cure me of my lesbianism.”

Bucky stops dead in his tracks for a beat, just blinking at her, taking her in as if for the first time. Her story feels like an ambush. “Did it...work?”

“Curing me? No—that doesn’t _ever_ work,” Nat continues, and they keep walking. “All those camps, all those prayer meetings, and I still liked girls. My parents decided they should marry me off to an older guy in town, nice and early.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah—I didn’t like that idea. So one Sunday morning I stole a bunch of money from the offering plate and ran away to California.”

Bucky gives her a low whistle, impressed. “Bold choice.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

A gust of wind pulls strands of hair out of her ponytail. She tucks them behind her ear and gives Bucky an intense look. “You wanted to know why I’m helping you. It’s because I never want another person to feel the way I did. I didn’t want you to be alone. You and me? We’re like child soldiers from the same fascist country. And now we’re free.”

He winces. “I don’t feel free.”

“You will.”

He swallows. “Part of me still misses it.”

“So do I. But I’m telling you. It does get better. It gets worse, but then it gets better.”

It’s too hard to imagine. “Promise?”

She holds out her hand for Bucky to shake. A deal. “Promise.”

When they touch he feels warm and safe and seen; something perks up in his soul. It’s not like falling in love so much as realizing he’s found his long lost family. They are allies, twins. They are refugees together. He has so many questions and she might help him find answers.

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s not even sure what exactly he’s thanking her for. For being here? For telling her story? For being proof that there’s life on the other side?

She gifts him with a half-smile and then gestures around them. “See—freedom.  Everywhere.”

He’s been so absorbed by their conversation that he hasn’t paid attention to the scene around him, the summit. They’ve reached the lookout point: a view so beautiful it startles him. It seems to stretch out endlessly. There’s mountain peaks—Mount San Jacinto and Mount Gorgonio, among others. He read about them once. There’s boulder fields, and the Salton Sea, and tons of cacti, and of course the Joshua trees themselves. They dot the whole landscape.

He feels...well, _elevated._ He’s never been up a mountain before. Brooklyn is pancake-flat, and while he saw mountains on the mission field, he was never allowed to make an ascent. The world is just so _big_ and people can be _good_ ; for the first time in years he feels hopeful. Hopeful that he might figure all this out someday, that things could get better instead of worse. It’s like _faith._

Every shape in sight is bathed in dusky orange light, including Steve’s awe-struck face as he approaches. Part of him wants to lift Steve off his feet and kiss him, right here in front of Nat and Sam and the other wandering, selfie-snapping tourists. But he can’t. He still—God, he just can’t. Although kissing him would be easier than trying to tell him everything. He wants to—wants to tell Steve just how long he’s loved him, just how deep the hunger goes, but even thinking it makes panic rise up in his throat.

Instead, he reads a plaque.  

“The Tree of Life,” it says by way of a heading. Suddenly Steve is at his side, reading about Joshua Trees too. _When you try to pick out anything by itself, you find it hitched to everything else in the universe._

“Reminds me of something my grandma used to say,” Bucky muses. “ _Jimmy boy, every living thing is a tiny piece of God, including you, and don’t you forget it.”_

“I’m sure your dad thought that was heresy.”

“Oh, it’s definitely heresy. But I don’t care what he thinks.”

Steve’s eyebrows fly up. “That so?”  

“Yeah.”

With that, ever so gently, Steve brushes his pinky along Buck’s free hand. It’s a tiny invitation, a question mark rather than an exclamation point. Steve looks like he can barely breathe, wondering if maybe just maybe, Bucky might get the hint and grab ahold.

Bucky freezes. It’s not like they don’t make excuses to touch all the time. They just don’t touch like _that_ , in a clearly romantic sort of way, the way a boyfriend and girlfriend would.

His hand is shaking a little when he slowly interlaces his fingers with Steve’s.

They lock eyes: blue on blazing blue. Bucky knows his face is naked, vulnerable, scared. He hopes Steve gets the message: that this is all he can handle right now. It might even be _more_ than he can handle. Steve gives Bucky’s hand a tight squeeze and then he softly lets it go, as if he could hear Bucky’s thoughts.

They direct their attention back to the sky, to the sun behind the mountains. A whole bunch of other colors spill out like ink onto a vast canvas. Reds and purples mix with the clouds. They sit down on benches and watch it all unfold and fade. Slowly but surely, golden hour turns to navy night and Venus arrives as a flickering, far off glimmer.

That  _star._

This whole scene.

Something that’s been bothering Bucky clicks into place.

“I don’t believe the earth is only 10,000 years old,” he says to Steve; he’s glad nobody is close enough to hear him and laugh.

“So how old do you think it is?” Steve asks him. They didn’t teach evolution back in Brooklyn, not even in the public schools, not really. Sarah Rogers was always giving Steve better science books on the side, books that made his own Creationist mother click her tongue in disapproval, books he avoided to spare himself the conflict.

“They say millions of years, right?”

“Billions,” Steve corrects.

“Billions, huh?” Bucky takes in this information with an odd sort of relief. His shoulders relax. He looks up and up and all around. “Makes sense. Nothing _this_ gorgeous happens real fast.”

“Right,” Steve says. “It takes time.”

 

Time, indeed.

  
  


*

  


 

It takes about three hours to get from Joshua Tree to LA. And it takes about four hours after settling into the townhouse for Bucky to wake up screaming in his new bed from a nightmare, talkin’ about demons and the judgment of the Lord.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Bucky groans in the dark. Sweat is seeping through his pajamas. Steve sits on the edge of the bed hesitantly, his heart sinking. He has to be willing to let him go, if that’s what he needs. Even after all this. “Do you really wanna leave?”

The silence is so thick, Steve thinks he might actually choke on it. But then Bucky is sitting up and clutching at him, like Steve’s a mirage that might disappear, poof. “No. I don’t wanna leave.”  

They’re a tangle of limbs, hands and arms grasping for the kind of hug Steve’s been hungry for since the last one. “You can,” Steve says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You moron. I owe you _everything_.”

Steve climbs under the covers with him and they sleep back to back through that first night, and then the night after that, and that and that, until it becomes a habit.

  
  


Bucky doesn’t leave the house much, at first. He spends entire weeks holed up, cleaning and sleeping and not much else. He starts mopping the floors every damn day and when Steve asks why, Bucky says, “I’m just trying to earn my keep.”

He drinks a beer or five on New Year’s Eve and realizes they make the panic attacks stop. Steve counts the bottles in the recycling bin for a few weeks before getting rid of all the alcohol in the house and making Bucky an appointment with a therapist at the local community center.

“I don’t got the money for it,” Bucky argues. His posture is bent and low, like he’s trying to sink into the ground.

“Well, I do,” Steve insists.

It takes two sessions with the therapist for Bucky to freak out and decide that he wants to go back to Texas, and then another session after that for him to determine he never wants to step foot in Texas ever again.

  
  


 

“Soooo,” Nat instigates. “Have you guys...talked?”

“Not really,” Steve admits.

Nat quirks an eyebrow up. “But you’re _together_. A couple.”

“We’re just... _us_ ,” Steve says defensively.

“Just talk to him.”

“It’s gotta be on his terms. It’s killing me, but that’s how it’s gotta be. It’s just gotta be on his terms.”

  
  


 

They don’t talk about it. What they are to each other. But they talk about just about everything else: old times and daily life and future dreams. Bucky tells him about the exorcism, the weird drills in the middle of the night, the despair he felt because of it all. Steve tells him how worried he was, how angry he was, and how sorry he is. They mend as best they can until they’re closer than ever. Yet there’s still an invisible wall.

Steve paints and sketches and finishes his homework in record time, focusing on the only things he can control, channeling all of his longing and his energy into his art.

After 40 days in LA, Bucky sticks his feet in the Pacific Ocean for the first time and tells Steve that he no longer believes the Bible is all true. He seems relieved by this revelation. His smile is as refreshing as the cold waves that kiss their ankles.

“Maybe some parts are real and some parts aren’t,” Bucky muses.

“So which parts are real?”

“Hell if I know.”

  
  


 

Sam and Bucky jog. It takes Bucky a few lung-busting workouts to figure out that he’s not being punished anymore, that he doesn’t have to push himself to the brink.

There’s no need to go to extremes.

He and Nat talk theology on the porch a lot. At her recommendation, Bucky reads the Epic of Gilgamesh and a biology textbook and a whole bunch of Karen Armstrong books that he claims, “make him feel dumb and smart at the same time.”

They listen to ex-Christian podcasts together, even though Bucky’s not sure if he’s an ex-Christian or not. He’s not sure how to label himself. The identity crisis makes it hard to find new friends, as does being an art school stowaway, so he just works a lot instead, with a landscaping company that gives him almost full-time hours. The sunshine and the flowers seem to help. Sometimes Steve finds Bucky humming in the kitchen— _their_ kitchen—while arranging daisies or lilies in a vase.

  


 

Steve’s not supposed to see it, but Bucky left his phone on the table and it glows with the text preview. He can see that the message is from Bucky’s mother, just a scripture verse citation, and not one that Steve can recall from memory. Jude 1:7.

He looks it up later.

_Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire._

This can’t be the first time they’ve sent him pure bile disguised as holy concern since he started living here. Of course not.

“Have your folks been calling you?” he ventures to ask.

“Yeah. But I don’t answer. I know what they’re gonna say. I’m just not sure what I wanna say _back._ ”

  


On Bucky’s 64th day in LA, Nat invites them both to an event. An LGBTQ Valentine’s Day event. Alphabet soup they don’t know how to swim in.

“I’ll go if you go,” Steve says, testing the waters.

Bucky won’t look at him. “You go ahead.”

“You wanna do something else?”

“Yeah—sleep. I don’t feel so good.”

Bucky does indeed go to bed early and that’s when Steve decides that he’s allowed to have a little fun while he waits, because if he doesn’t he’ll go crazy from this.

He and Nat dance up a storm at the party. He dances up a storm with some other folks too—all of them men. He likes it, likes the way they look at him, the way they touch him. He learns the word _twink_ and gets a phone number from a particularly tall and burly guy who acted like he wanted to blow Steve right there on the dance floor. It’s exhilarating.

He deletes the number on his way home and finds a fresh sunflower waiting on his nightstand.

  


 

It’s the Easter candy in the grocery store that sets Bucky off, stocked so early on the shelves, like a reminder that he’s still got time to get his act together and head home for a Prodigal Son-style reunion with his family. Steve can see it in Buck’s eyes: those chocolate eggs are a countdown. Nat seems as equally troubled.

“I hate Peeps,” she says, while placing a box of them in their shared buggy.

Steve’s face contorts in confusion. “Then why—”

“I have my reasons.”

When they get home she and Bucky stand there in front of the microwave, waiting for the pink and white explosion.

“I hate Easter,” Nat says.

Bucky stares, expectantly. “I sure don’t miss the church clothes.”

“I don’t miss the _sermons_ ,” Nat grimaces.

“I do miss the people though.”

Then it happens: the inflating, the oozing, the melting eruption of burning marshmallow fluff. There’s a moment of pure satisfaction.

Eventually Bucky starts cleaning up the mess.

Steve feels like the odd man out, because he likes Easter, possibly on account of the fact it was just one of two times a year he actually went to church growing up. Easter and Christmas Eve. It was just a nice thing to do with his momma.

He liked the stained glass and the statues. He liked the ritual of it too, the creeds and the prayers, and even the roadtrip it required. There weren’t any catholic churches in Brooklyn, so they’d drive out to Hattiesburg or Lumberton for mass. Afterward they’d have a little picnic at a park, just the two of them on a blanket. His mom would bake fresh bread for the sandwiches ahead of time and then splurge for the fanciest deli meats and cheeses at the store, if she had the money for it, along with berries and cream. Steve would invite Bucky to join just about every year, but of course he couldn’t come. He had his own rituals to follow.

Easter is sort of the Superbowl for Bible-thumpers. But lots of ‘em don’t even call it Easter, because that word has pagan roots. It’s Resurrection Sunday, thank you very much. Bucky’s mom was always very adamant about that.

Bucky’s church did a Passion play every year on Good Friday, wherein the whole congregation got to watch some actor pretend to be tortured and crucified. Steve got dragged to it a few times and it was sort of fascinating to him, the way people were always feeling real sad by the end, how the pastor would get up and explain how it’s us that put Jesus through all that violence because of our sin. Then he’d invite people to the front to confess and get born again.

Bucky was always a nervous wreck at those sorts of things. He looks something close to a wreck right now, wiping marshmallow out of the microwave with a damp sponge, scrubbing as if he were trying to cleanse away his own imperfections. Nat’s already gone upstairs.

“I keep trying to call Becca. No answer.”

That his siblings haven’t reached out is incredibly disappointing. Steve was hoping they’d break rank and support him no matter what. No such luck. “I wish she’d run away,” Steve says, even though it might be the wrong thing to say.

“Me too.”

“Heard from your brothers?”

“No. And I don’t blame them for it. They’re just doin’ what they’re told.”

“Still bullshit.”

“I just wish...Geez, I just...”

“What?”

Bucky stops scrubbing, turns around. “I just wish I could figure out the right answers already. I’ve been doing all this reading and studying and searching and it feels like I know _less_ than before. I hate it. I hate not knowing the truth of things. Why we’re here and if God’s real and what it all _means_.”

“You know, some of those questions...they don’t even have answers.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve been looking for _the_ answers. Maybe just look for _yours_. When it comes to faith. It’s kind of up to you.”

Bucky considers this. There’s a look of pure frustration on his face that slowly fades to what might be curiosity.  “Up to me.”

Steve nods. “Yeah. Basically.”

Bucky does something he’s never done before: he wraps his arms around Steve and plants a kiss on his forehead. They’re just the right height for it. Woah.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says right into Steve’s skin, “You know that, right?”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” Steve says. They just hold each other, faces touching, Bucky’s cheek to Steve’s temple. If there were music, Steve would want to sway like a slow dance, his awkward limbs be damned.

“I gotta get to work,” Bucky says, pulling away, but not before burying his nose in Steve’s hair and breathing in. He kisses Steve on the forehead one more time like this is something totally normal between them. Steve feels like he’s melting: a too-warm Peep.

  
  
  


 

They celebrate Easter Sunday all together on a picnic blanket, Sam and Nat too. They eat and drink and revel in the green grass until Bucky gets quiet and panicky and takes off into the late afternoon light, saying there’s someplace he’s gotta be and some thing he’s gotta do.

Steve doesn’t go after him, doesn’t chase or search, not even when evening fades to midnight. Because he knows something now, something he didn’t before all of this: he can rip apart the world looking for Bucky, but he’ll never find him. Not until Bucky finds himself.

He tosses and turns in his bed— _their_ bed—wondering if the scent of Bucky lingering on these sheets will be the only goodbye he really gets. He thinks about that until he’s good and angry, like back in the old days, when he might’ve put his fist through some drywall.

_-Just tell me you’re safe so I can sleep_

_-I’m safe now._

_-What do you mean ‘now’?_

_-Meet me on the beach? Our spot._

_-On my way_

 

 

 

 

Santa Monica ain’t exactly deserted, even though it’s 1AM. There are still people wandering around, some drunk and some homeless, but it’s at least quiet enough that the sound of waves crashing is the loudest thing Steve hears when he sits on the bench with Bucky.

Their eyes meet. Buck looks like he’s been crying, and not just a little bit.

Steve swallows, throat tight. “What did you mean. When you said you were safe ‘ _now._ ’”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. He collapses onto Steve’s shoulder, which is a little awkward for him, seeing as Steve’s shorter. Steve pulls his legs underneath himself for a boost to sit on and it evens them out just right. He swings an arm around Bucky and pulls him in close.

Bucky doesn’t sob or shake. There’s just silence, waves, and then: “I blocked my parents’ phone numbers. I blocked them on everything.”

“You—you did?”

“It was time,” he says thickly, face pressed into the curve between Steve’s shoulder and neck. “I talked to them before I did it.”

“What’d you tell ‘em?”

“That I’m in love with you and always will be.”

Steve’s breath hitches and his stomach does a backflip. Every cell in his body is stunned. Did he really say that? He wants to ask Bucky to say it again, over and over: that he’s in love and always will be.

Bucky extricates himself from the crook of Steve’s shoulder to look at him now. “I told them I’d rather go to hell with you than spend eternity with their dumbass version of God anyhow. And I mean it. _If_ hell is real—and that’s a big if—and _if_ God wants to send me there for loving you—well, fuck that God and fuck anybody who believes in him.”

“Geez—I really am a bad influence, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, the worst. Your friends too.”

He takes Steve’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I thought I was protecting you. All this time. You got beat up enough as it was back home without being openly queer on top of it. Plus you still like girls too, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but—”

“So you still had a shot at a normal life. I wanted that for you. I thought I was saving you. But I was really just hurting you with all this.”

Steve can feel his lip trembling, despite his best efforts to steady it. He's been trying to stay steady for so long. “It hurts something fierce.”

Bucky is anguished at that, eyes wet: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve known better—you don’t do normal and you sure as hell don’t do easy.”

Steve wipes his own eyes quickly. “It’s not really in my nature.”

 

After roughly 120 days in LA, Bucky gives Steve the biggest smile and surges forward to kiss him. 

It’s a gentle, chaste kiss—at first. For maybe five seconds, it’s curious and sweet, careful even, like maybe Bucky is giving Steve a moment to acclimate himself to the feeling, seeing as Steve has never actually done this before. But then their lips move together more intensely. Bucky kisses him and kisses him, urgent and ripe. And if Steve’s bad at this, Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, because he quickly works Steve’s wet mouth open and moans right into it.

The sound sets off sparks throughout Steve’s entire body. He pulls back: “You know I love you too, right?”

Bucky rocks his forehead into Steve’s. “ _Stevie,_ ” he breathes, “That’s just about the _only_ thing I know.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story was originally rated Mature, but now I guess I'll need to change it to Explict? Beware: (loving and tender) smut ahead!

 

 

Steve and Bucky kiss and talk on that bench by the sea until they realize it’s 3AM and they both have to be up in the morning. Steve’s got a ten o’clock class and Bucky has flower beds to plant and prune, so they head home and fall into bed, barely able to keep their eyes open, but still wanting to rub up against each other as much as possible. Now that the invisible wall has fallen, it’s a sloppy free for all. They’re drunk on it, the decadence of every tiny touch. Steve hopes he never gets used to this.

He never wants to take for granted the way Bucky kept his hand on his thigh the whole drive home.

Or the way Bucky takes over as big spoon now, pulling Steve’s back into his broad chest, flopping his arms around him, generally treating Steve like a human body pillow. The springs creak and the sheets rustle as they settle in, feeling like they’re getting away with something: a secret. Steve’s never felt so safe and so happy to be smaller. They fit together as if by design.

If he wasn’t so tired, Steve would be tempted to turn around and start kissing Bucky again. He wants to instigate and investigate more, to take things further. He wants Bucky to teach him everything he knows.

But he’s actually not entirely sure what all Bucky knows about sex, now that he thinks about it.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers.

“Mmm?”

“You’ve done it before right? Like with all those girls back home.”

“Pretty much,” Bucky mumbles languidly. “Not all the way, but pretty much.”

“And you didn’t like it.”

“Not for a lack of trying, pal. Trust me.”

There’s a relief in that, somehow. But a jealous question rears up and he can’t help but ask. “What about other guys?”

“Just one.”

“Who was he?” He wants to kill any competitors.

“Some older man from the internet. It was during that summer we were living together in your Ma’s trailer. I was going crazy. And then I went and did that and freaked out even more because I liked it so much.”

He wants to ask what all they did. Positions, details. Jealous questions because he is a jealous person deep down, ornery and irascible. Bucky knows this, of course, which is why he says what he does next, Steve figures.

“I only let him suck my dick because I couldn’t be with you. So I liked it, but I _didn’t_. It didn’t really mean anything. Other than telling me what I already knew, which is that I wanted to fuck you six ways to Sunday for the rest of my life.”

Steve sighs happily. “You tell the best bedtime stories.”

“Go to sleep, Rogers,” Bucky orders, jabbing him lovingly in the ribs. He kisses the back of Steve’s head and they drift.

  
  


Steve wakes up at first light, too damn early, aching and hard in his boxers and out of breath from the sticky heat of Bucky’s body all over his. He can hardly stand it, that ache, especially when he remembers what Bucky said last night about fucking him six ways to Sunday.

They might not have time for six ways this morning, but it’s early enough for at least _one._

Steve presses his ass into Bucky’s crotch and just sort of...shifts around. Like maybe this is on accident, just morning time adjustments. There’d be no way of him knowing. If Bucky’s not ready for more he can ignore it.

“You think you’re sly, huh?” Bucky says eventually. His morning voice is all gravel in Steve’s ear; it sends shivers down his spine. “I got work soon.”

"Take the day off,” Steve suggests.

“You’ve got _class._ ”

“Not until later.”

Steve turns his head just enough so that Bucky can kiss him. Unsurprisingly, it is still the best feeling in the world. Bucky slides a hand down to Steve’s hip and pulls him even closer and grinds right back and wow—Steve can feel just how much Bucky is enjoying this kiss, right through Buck’s sweatpants.

They just keep kissing, greedily and desperate, making up for lost time while the friction builds, until Steve can’t take it anymore and decides to do something rash. He drags Bucky’s hand underneath the cotton waistband of his boxer shorts.

" _Please,_ ” Steve groans. He doesn’t wanna beg but he will.

“You sure?”

“Very.”

And with that, Bucky tugs Steve’s boxers farther down and wraps his palm and fingers around Steve’s cock. Steve has to turn his head into the pillow to stifle an embarrassingly loud moan. He doesn’t want to wake the whole house up. He pants harder with each stroke. The visual alone is enough to almost send him over the edge.

Bucky’s grinding against Steve’s ass gets more uncoordinated and frantic, and Steve senses they’re both already on the verge. Figures: it’s been a long time coming. No pun intended. But he wants more than this. He wants more skin and far less clothing.

“Hold up,” Steve says, breathless, and Bucky stops stroking him. Steve half-sits up just enough to take his own shirt off, and then he’s hoisting Bucky’s off, and shimming the rest of the way out of his shorts, and Bucky—

Bucky is now naked.

Gloriously, beautifully naked.

Steve’s mind goes quiet, quiet like in church when it’s time to pray. Steve looks at Bucky’s body, the muscle he’s regained, the tan from all that work outdoors, and thanks the Lord above for making him an artist. Because he wants to draw what he’s seeing on every available canvas. Bucky’s always been good looking and Steve’s seen him naked before, but not like this. Never so intentionally, like it was all for him, an offering. The slope of those shoulders, the fullness of his lips. Those dark lashes and that darker line of hair starting at his belly button and tracing down. Bucky is the Sistine Chapel and the Mona Lisa and the David and Starry Night all rolled into one. A masterpiece.

Steve considers feeling insecure about his own more slender, wiry frame. But miracle of all miracles, Bucky is flicking his eyes up and down Steve’s pale body and he seems to like what he sees. Steve sends up a quick and silent thank you to Nat for forcing him to sign up for that yoga class. He may be small, but he’s still strong and lithe.

Bucky dives in and starts planting kisses down Steve’s neck and chest, running his hands and fingernails all over him, from his abs to his thighs. Steve’s whole body pricks with goosebumps when Bucky’s tongue finds his nipple. Steve tries to return the tantalization by slipping one of Bucky’s fingers in his mouth and sucking. It should be awkward but it’s very much _not._

The kisses trail upward again, back up to Steve’s jaw, and then Bucky looks at him, hard. “I know how you are when you get an _idea_. What is it you wanna do, huh?

“Anything you want,” Steve says instantly, and it’s practically a dare. “You can do whatever you want to me and I’ll like it.”

Bucky’s eyes flash with desire, pupils flaring. If it’s a dare, he’s gonna take. Challenge accepted. He forcefully manhandles Steve right back into the spooning position they were in before, Steve’s back to Bucky’s naked chest, Bucky’s leaking dick on his ass.

For a second Steve thinks Bucky might actually try to fuck him, the way they do in porn. He’s not opposed exactly, but a certain practical fear grips him, because he knows it might hurt and he hasn’t exactly prepared down there. There’s a process to it, he’s pretty sure. Cleaning and stretching and lube, which they don’t have, but he’s willing to—

The fear disappears when Bucky thrusts his dick between Steve’s thighs. _Oh_ , okay—this is easier. He’s not sure how this idea has never occurred to him, in all his fantasies, because it’s sort of perfect, especially with how sweaty they are: Bucky just slides right in. Steve squeezes his legs together to make it tighter for him and Bucky chokes out a surprised groan of bliss at the increased friction.  

From there it gets hazy; Bucky rocks into him, thrusting slow at first but then faster and faster. Steve hears the urgent slap of flesh behind him. He gets lost in the sensations of it, the shocking pleasure of Buck’s hand on his dick, stroking. He gets lost the emotions too, the intimacy of it, the staggering and overwhelming peace of knowing they have all the time in the world to get this right, because Bucky’s not going anywhere anymore, he’s here, he’s home, he’s  _his_ — _"Bucky."_

Steve climaxes unexpectedly, dick pulsing warm wetness into the sheets and into Buck’s hand. Steve rides it out, practically seeing stars, and then he turns his face back for a needy kiss from Bucky. He bites at Bucky’s lower lip, softly yet viciously—daring him to come.

Bucky’s hips jerk forward a few more times; one, two, three—and then he’s crying out right into Steve’s mouth. Steve wants to swallow the sound somehow, to eat it. That alone would keep him full for days on end. Their love isn’t a sin—it’s a goddamn sacrament.

The mattress creaks as Bucky falls onto his back, wrecked and exhausted. Steve tries to clean up a little bit of the mess with tissues plucked from the box on the nightstand, but then Bucky is pulling him roughly onto his chest, claiming him. Steve can hear his heartbeat still going wild.

“We should take a shower,” Steve suggests.

“We should take the day off.”

“You really wanna? I thought—”

“Work can wait,” he says hoarsely. “I haven’t called out more than twice I don’t think. I’ll say I’m sick or something. Which is a big fat lie—I feel the exact opposite of sick.”

“I know what you mean.” Despite his panting, Steve feels like there is somehow more room in his lungs now. Breathing is easier. He inhales and exhales, alive and healing. He has everything he wants and needs right here.

  
  


They doze off and on, until Steve’s pre-set alarm rudely wakes them and Steve has to flail naked around the room looking for his phone. When he finds it he notices he’s got four missed calls, one from Dr. Erskine and the rest from numbers he doesn’t know.

The others are probably spam, robo calls, but a sense of foreboding settles in, like maybe it’s Bucky’s parents just trying to harass them in some anonymous way.

He flips through his apps and takes a quick look at Twitter and Instagram, just to see if the admittedly “too political” painting he posted got any likes. It was actually an assignment, to post his work more often.

He doesn’t really _get_ what he’s seeing at first. He assumes there’s been a malfunction and climbs back into bed, handing Bucky the phone. “What does this mean?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, studying the screen. He sits up at attention suddenly, wide eyed. “Woah. Steve—you went viral.”

“Well, that’s good, right? Exposure?”

“No, _Steve._ I don’t mean a little bit viral. You have almost fifty thousand likes on this. Somebody big must've retweeted you.”

Steve blinks. Opens his mouth and closes it. Blinks again. “...what the _fuck._ ”

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

Steve assumes his viral fame will be nothing more than a flash in the pan, just hot oil catching fire for a hot minute and then dying out. And for a little while, that seems likely—he gets a whole mess of extra followers on his social media accounts and another retweet from BuzzFeed and that’s about it. Everything seems to calm down. He starts selling prints for extra cash.

The money is sure nice, but Steve wasn’t exactly expecting to be running a side business during finals, so Bucky helps with all the extra bits, the paper selection and the scanning and the mailing. He doesn’t seem to mind the work, likes it even, the precision and the details.

He grabs Steve’s hand one day in the printing shop. Right in front of a group of people and everything, as if to say: this one’s mine and I’m proud. Steve keeps it together long enough to get his ass out of the store and into the car so he can burst into tears, thinking about all the times he got picked last for kickball.

That same day he almost lets himself post of a photo of himself and Bucky to his new mass of followers, because he wants to shout his love for Bucky from the rooftops after all these years of silence. Yet something holds him back. It ain’t fear or pride so much as concern for Buck’s wellbeing. Coming out to a paper store is a little easier than the internet. He’s worried all this will be too much too soon.

So instead he posts a painting of Dum Dum in a tattered army uniform, being buried alive by Donald Trump’s hotel development construction.

Dum Dum said he liked it. He said Stick it to The Man.

Steve gets a call from NPR: Arts & Life after that, asking for a quick interview.

  
  
  


Buyers start bugging him for his originals, but he’s not entirely sure if he wants to part with them just yet, or how to price them. His professors throw out numbers, tell him to ask for what he’s worth, to strike while the iron is hot. The amounts of money they suggest charging seem too ridiculous to be real, especially for the ones with such non-eventful subject matter: Oak Lane neighbors drinking beer on their porches, old church buildings falling apart, himself as a child eating a ketchup sandwich. That one’s entitled Ketchup Sandwich. It’s not exactly groundbreaking material. Not even the political stuff. Banksy he is not.

His paintings of Bucky are admittedly beautiful and his best work, but he didn’t even post those online, to protect Bucky’s privacy.

All in all he feels like a hack. An imposter. He assumes people will eventually move their attention to more exciting things.

It’s really only when he gets a call from a pleasant woman named Pepper Potts that he realizes the spotlight probably isn’t going away anytime soon. It’s shining right into his eyes. He feels like a deer dodging traffic.

  
  
  
  


“Steve, slow down,” Bucky commands over the phone. “You’re gonna give yourself an asthma attack.”

“—I just got so _mad_ , Buck. I was fixin’ to hang up. What do tech bros—tech _billionaires_ like Tony Stark or Elon Musk or Bill Gates know about fucking _anything_ , having that much money should be _illegal_ , I coulda charged a couple hundred dollars for it, a couple thousand even and it’d be _nothing_ to Stark, chump change, a piddlin’ drop in the bucket. But then the assistant lady—she was being so nice, saying she thought it was an investment, that she curates so many collections and how she wanted to buy my stuff _now,_ before I blow up even bigger because she has a sense about these things— Maybe she was just stroking my ego but she didn’t seem the type—so I tossed out this insane number thinking it was my way of saying no without saying no but she acted like it was _reasonable_ , Bucky. _Reasonable._ How in the world could she have thought it was reasonable? Is she that outta touch with normal money? I was telling her to fuck off in a nice way, and she—she didn’t get it—she thought my number was for real—she said, “Certainly, that can be arranged.” Arranged! It’s so much money it has to be ARRANGED. Moved around. Drawn up. ARR— ”

“ _Steve._ Tell me what the hell you’re trying to say.”

“I’m saying I sold Ketchup Sandwich. The original. For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Quarter million.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for at least ten seconds. “What’re you gonna do with it?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

After he hangs up with Bucky, he calls up a realtor.

  
  
  
  


The problem with associating with Tony Stark in any way, shape, or form is that he’s one of the most famous people in the world, and not always in a good way. He’s famous and eccentric in a way that can end up either on CNN or TMZ. When Stark tweets a photo of his newly acquired “Steve Rogers original,” the story ends up all over the internet, just because he’s Tony Stark and him breathing is news and anything he likes is suddenly cool. At least Steve’s got a few weeks off before summer semester starts to answer all the damn phone calls.

NPR calls again. TIME asks if they can do a sidebar, just a little blurb. E! News calls, but they clearly aren’t interested in him at all, they just wanna know more about Stark—what’s the connection there? There isn’t one, he has to explain. He just bought some art. He’s doesn’t say for how much.

“Just don’t start acting too big for your britches,” Bucky jokes. Bucky thinks the attention is amazing, of course, although he doesn’t seem happy about the interruptions to their now-regular schedule of blowing each other as often as possible: in the shower, in the car, at the beach once where they almost got caught by a fucking cop, every room of the house when nobody’s home, an empty classroom, and also the wine cellar at some ritzy art party Steve got invited to.

“I _can’t_ get too big for my britches,” Steve groans. “None of this circus is because of me. I’m famous because Tony Stark likes something I made. Art I made while at a school I only got into because Dr. Erskine was feeling extra sick and generous. And I never would’ve even met Dr. Erskine if it wasn’t for Dum Dum giving me some money to go blow on strippers.”

“You should say all that in your next interview.”

Steve does, thinking it might get people to finally realize he’s a joke, but it backfires. He gets asked to go on Ellen’s TV show and declines, worried he might say too much about his personal life—not that it’s any of the public’s business.

He goes back and forth on it. It’s nobody’s business and no one has a right to know anything about him.

It’s nobody’s business but he’s still got an itch, a burning desire to let the whole world know who he really is. He’s all or nothing, head first. He’s a hot headed idiot who wants to show up on national television waving a giant rainbow flag, out of spite and righteous indignation for the folks back home who’d hate him for it. But then he thinks about Dum Dum, who deserves a face to face conversation. He thinks about Gabe Jones and the few friends he’s got from back home. He thinks about Bucky, who never asked for any of this extra drama in his life.

The right time to come out will feel like the right time. Maybe. Hopefully. But what if someone on the internet beats him to it without his say-so? The longer he waits, the more likely that seems. Anticipation of the moment is always worse than the moment itself. He just needs the right opportunity. He might be running out of time.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Bucky feels it in the night: a sharp jolt, then a rumble.

At first he thinks he’s dreaming, or rousing from a nightmare, or that maybe there’s a plane flying low nearby. But when he hears something topple over in the kitchen, he bolts up in bed and takes a deep breath and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do. The whole building is vibrating. Is this—

“Cover your head,” Steve urges in the dark. Bucky moves to shield Steve’s head instead and as soon as he does, the earth stops shaking.

Well, there’s a first time for everything.

Steve squirms out of bed and throws open their bedroom door and yells, “Everybody okay up there?”

“Fine,” Nat calls down from upstairs. “Sam didn’t even wake up!”

“Well _now_ I’m awake,” Sam groans.

“They’re pros at this,” Steve says, shutting the door. “Earthquakes are nothing to them. It’s like us with hurricanes: no big deal.”

They settle back into bed, even though Bucky’s not tired at all. He’s unbearably awake. He is unbearably aware of how quickly the ground can shift beneath them.

“You okay? Your heart’s beatin’ awful fast.”

“Think I might need a walk.”

“One of your secret mystery walks all alone?”

Bucky kisses him to soften the rejection. “Yeah.”

Part of him wants Steve to come, but what he wants even more at the moment is to have a smoke and he won’t put that shit anywhere near Steve’s lungs. He shouldn’t put that shit in his own lungs either, but the landscaping crew got him into it and it feels damn good every now and then, the warmth and the calming buzz. Puffing on the occasional Marlboro Black is a laughable, controlled rebellion—the kind that keeps him from over-correcting his sheltered upbringing with any truly wild substances.

 _“Don’t drink, chew, or run with those who do,”_ his youth pastor used to say.

Well, Bucky hasn’t had a beer since January and chaw is nasty stuff, but he’s certainly running with the “wrong” people and he’s happier for it.

“I know about the smokes, dumbass,” Steve says lovingly as Bucky climbs out of bed and starts searching in the dark for clothes and his stash. “You know I don’t _care_ . Most people in my life growing up musta smoked a pack a day. I lived. My lungs survived. I ain’t some glass doll you’re gonna break _._ ”

“I’ll be back soon. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Alright, alright. But if there’s an aftershock and you fall into a crack in the earth, that’s on you.”

Bucky kisses him to get him shush, and roughly too, a real smacker.

 

 

It’s chilly in May in LA, chilly enough that Bucky regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt. He’ll never get used to that—back home he’d be sweating buckets in May, even in the middle of the night like this, and he wouldn’t even mind it. The weather here has always felt too good to be true. It’s like living on a movie set: unreal to the point of being eerie. But then the forests catch fire and the ground quakes. Even that doesn’t seem real. It’s like special effects.

He can’t see the stars.

That’s one thing he hates about living here. He’s got a list building in his head, getting longer over time. The traffic, the lack of rain, it goes on. Although every strike against the place is cancelled out by the fact that Steve is here. For now, that’s enough. Hell, it’d be enough forever. He’s just homesick is all. He misses the South with all of his might, the thunderstorms and spanish moss and lighting bugs. His brothers’ laughs. Sweet tea and Becca’s smile.

The sidewalk is covered in orange fluorescence, which is not exactly soothing, but at least his cigarette is. Bucky takes a long drag and basks in the fact that when he thought for a fleeting moment that he might die from an earthquake tonight, he was scared, but he wasn’t scared of hell.

It’s a small victory.

If he walks left he’ll end up at Steve’s school. But roaming around there at night might mean a conversation with campus security and he’s done his best to avoid that all these months. Steve is fairly certain Dr. Erskine would not care about their arrangement, but he says it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission and Bucky agrees.

He is literally hiding from the world still, especially Steve’s world.

It’s not what he wants, but what other choice does he have? If it’s better for Steve’s reputation to keep quiet, then keep quiet he will. It’s not like he doesn’t know how. He thinks back to when he’d grabbed Steve hand in a store. Steve had seemed so shocked. Bucky had found him out in the car afterward, quiet with wet eyes, like the whole thing had upset him. He’s been more cautious since then. He’s worried all this will be too much too soon. Steve’s got a whole career to think about.

Meanwhile Bucky’s not sure what the hell he’s supposed to do with his life.

The moon is a bright spot on the surface of the pond. Looking out at the water makes him think of his plan, the one back in Texas. It feels like another lifetime ago that he was scheming to end it all, that he was preparing himself for the fires of hell, hoping to rid the world of himself. He wonders if he could’ve even pulled it off. Back then he’d felt so determined and desperate for the pain to stop, he really might’ve, if Steve hadn’t shown up.

He still hasn’t told Steve about it. Would Steve think he was weak? Would he treat him differently? Would it change something between them? Would Steve keep holding himself back? He never did tell that therapist about it either. He was too worried they’d lock him up in a hospital, that there’d be some note in his file, a red flag forever following him around.

The truth: he wanted to die but he doesn’t want to die anymore.

But he still isn’t sure how to live. It seems like everytime he figures it out, reality shifts in some way and he has to start the business of figuring how to function all over again.

“Got a light?”

It’s Sam. With Nat.

They weren’t trying to sneak up on him, not like how Nat does with Steve, but Bucky startles anyway. His senses haven’t been the same since bootcamp.

“Just kidding,” Sam say, “Smoking is gross.”

“Why are y’all out here?”

He sounds annoyed and he is, a little. But he’s glad for the company too.

“I saw you take off from my window,” Nat says.

“I’m fine.”

She eyes him suspiciously, not buying it. “During my first earthquake, I thought the Rapture was happening.”

He cough-laughs a bunch of smoke. “God, the _Rapture_. Did you have those drills?”

“Of course. I had supplies ready for the Tribulation.”

“So you didn’t think you’d get snatched up to heaven immediately?”

“OOooh, no. Not with what was going on in my head,” Nat says implishly.

“What are you guys _talking_ about?” Sam asks.

“I spent a whole lotta time worrying about the Apocalypse as a kid,” says Bucky, almost fondly. He has to laugh at it, although the reality wasn’t so funny. “You know. End Times. God is gonna gather up all the _good_ Christians at the end of the world in one magical blink—poof, gone—and let the rest of us be tortured for a season until the Devil and Jesus battled it out once and for all.”

Sam looks and Nat and then Bucky and then back at Nat again. “And you...practiced this happening? As children?”

“Yep,” Nat says cheerfully.

It all seems so absurd now. He and Nat are like soldiers who realized they were only ever in a Civil War reenactment. None of it was real, except the fear they felt.

“That might the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Sam says. “How do you guys even function? That’s insane. Like, lock you in a bunker-tell-you-aliens-took-over-the-world-insane. You must question reality all the time.”

Nat swipes Bucky’s cigarette and takes a drag before handing it back. “Yeah, basically.”

Bucky just shrugs. “You get used to it.”

He copes by telling himself a story everyday, about who is now, although the story keeps changing, because that’s the way life works. He copes by grounding himself in reality as best he knows it:

His name is Bucky and today he lives in LA with his best friend, who is also the love of his life, who is also a man. A rich man. Although rich Steve is exactly the same as poor Steve, except rich Steve brings home brand-name cereal from the grocery store with an excited look on his face. He knows now that loving Steve was never anything to be ashamed of. Steve is someone he’s allowed to want. Steve is someone he’s allowed to have.

His name is Bucky and he has no family and he works as a landscaper even though he wants to go to college. He wants to learn everything there is to know but he’s scared because he’s an idiot who got duped by a cult. His name is Bucky and although he’s not sure if he believes in God anymore, he does believe in love, and he thinks about buying Steve a ring every damn day, even though they’re too young.

His name is Bucky and he has friends who will follow him into the night.

His name is Bucky and he’s sick of keeping secrets. Only scripture verse he still likes is John 8:32. The truth shall set you free.

  


*

 

A call comes so early Steve thinks for a moment that it must be some sort of emergency. The sun isn’t quite up yet.

He grabs at the phone, but Bucky beats him to it, flops over Steve’s entire body to snatch it. It’s is a new game Bucky’s invented: Personal Assistant. It’s more like Personal Guard Dog. Bucky says _somebody_ ’s gotta protect him from these assholes, the ones who try to steal his time and take advantage. He listens for a moment to the caller and then says, “Yes, this is the correct number. But it’s awful early for Steve to be talkin. This is his secretary speaking.”

Steve rolls his eyes and tries grabbing the phone again. Bucky has to stifle a laugh into the back of his hand. But then he sits up and acts a little more business-like. “Hey, Mr. Mayor. What can I do for you this morning?”

“Mayor?!” Steve mouths silently, aghast, eyes wide. “Of where??”

Bucky mouths, “Los Angeles,” and Steve feels like he might pass out, but then Bucky mouths, “Just kidding— _Brooklyn_ ,” and Steve collapses into his pillow with relief. Mayor Brandt is not exactly intimidating. He probably called so early because he doesn’t understand the highfalutin concept of _time zones_.

Bucky puts the call on speaker phone to put Steve out of his misery.

“I was wondering if Steve would wanna do the folks of Brooklyn a favor of sorts,” Brandt says. “Might be good for him too, come to think of it,”

“And what favor is that?” Bucky asks, not even bothering to hide the suspicion in his voice.

“Some ladies over at the Rotary Club heard that our Stevie’s gone and become a famous artist. So they cooked up an idea. A pretty good one.”

“I’m listening,” Bucky says.

“We were thinking that Steve could come do an art show here. You know, bring his favorite paintings of Brooklyn, let people see ‘em. We’d pocket the ticket money for the school system—and of course he’d keep whatever money he makes sellin’ the art itself.”

“An event,” Bucky repeats. “In Brooklyn. For Steve’s art of Brooklyn.”

“There’s quite the buzz about him these days. His name might draw a real crowd, help stimulate our economy. It’ll be good for Steve’s reputation too. Staying in touch with his roots and all that. Maybe some reporters will show up. Seems like a win-win, don’t it?”

“Maybe so.”

“Afraid we don’t got a fancy gallery to host him in, but our rec center don’t look half bad when it’s clean. Anyway, I know Steve’s probably pretty busy these days. But I also know he’s not the type to forget where he’s from. Just tell him to think about it and let us know.”

“Will do.”

Bucky hangs up and looks at Steve questioningly. It gets very quiet.

“Whatchu think?”

Steve presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll say.”

He gives Bucky a somber, searching look. He’s looking for something. An answer to the question it feels like he’s been asking for months, years even, their whole lives.

“It’s up to you,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head. “This is your career.”

“Not just my career. It’s my life. And my life and your life are all mixed up with each other. So it’s up to you. Because...because if I do this, I’m gonna wanna do it as _me_. The real me. The me that paints sexy angsty pictures of _you._ Are you ready for that?

“Yes,” Bucky says quickly, and it takes Steve a moment to catch it, because it’s not the answer he’s expecting.

“Wait, you are? You sure?”

A big smile spreads across Bucky’s face. “Yeah. I mean, if _you’re_ ready. You haven’t seemed—”

“I thought—I thought you’d be overwhelmed—”

“ _Me?_ I didn’t wanna overwhelm _you_ with everything else you’ve got goin’ on.”

Steve starts laughing with relief, because he’s read this all wrong, they both did. He’s always telling Bucky not to treat him like he’s made of glass, but he’s been treating Bucky like he’s breakable ever since he pulled him outta that ministry compound. But Bucky is the strongest, bravest person he knows. Of course Bucky will be okay. They both will.

“So it’s okay if I do this? Bring all those paintings of you and tell everybody you’re my partner?”

“I’ll kiss you right on the face while they’re taking pictures for the Brooklyn Gazette.”

“Jesus, just let me tell Dum Dum first.”

“You nervous?”

“Course. But I think he’ll come around.”

“You know they probably wouldn’t ask you to do this if they knew about us, right? We might get run outta town.”

This is the thought that’s been running through Steve’s mind since Brandt proposed the idea in the first place. If he were a more honest man, he’d call up Brandt and break the news first, and then see if Brooklyn still wanted to welcome home their hero. But not telling them? It’s too good of an opportunity for mischief to miss. He feels wild with it. He wants to cause trouble. Not trouble for trouble’s sake either: for every kid like him still stuck hiding in Brooklyn. He wants to be seen.

“Shit,” Bucky says. “Gonna be weird going back home and staying in a hotel.”

“Oh—we don’t need a hotel. I bought a nice big house in Brooklyn yesterday, right near the creek. Well, it’s really for Dum Dum. Still need to give it to him.”

“You _what_?”

  



	19. Chapter 19

 

Steve calls Mayor Brandt the next day with a list of reasonable demands: Tickets must be affordable enough for the actual citizens of Brooklyn to buy, there will be no hot dog machines, cotton candy machines, or any other carnival-like food machines present, and lastly and most importantly, under no circumstances will the event be hoedown themed.

He still has bad memories of his tenth grade homecoming dance. It too was held at the rec center.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Brandt says, “We know we gotta kick our hospitality up a notch.”

“It don’t gotta be fancy. It just needs to be _good._ I got a buddy, Gabe Jones—his momma runs a soul food kitchen in town—”

“Ms. Jackie’s?”

“Yeah. She could whip up some horderves.”

“You sure you don’t want something nicer, Steve-O?”

Other than maybe the Alt-Right and a man named Alexander Pierce, there is nothing Steve hates more in this world than to be called Steve-O. “Ms. Jackie’s is plenty nice.”

He has no idea who might show up to this thing, but they’ll be served hushpuppies and spicy shrimp and cheese biscuits and tea so sweet it rots their teeth out. And they’ll like it.

Brandt breathes too loudly, right into the phone. “Any other requests?”

“I’d like to say a few words at some point. Thanking everybody for coming, all that.”

“Give a whole speech if you wanna.”

“You know, I just might.”

 

 

Tickets go on sale a few weeks beforehand.

He invites Dr. Erskine, thinking he’ll politely decline out of busyness or fatigue, but decline he does not. In fact, Dr. Erskine buys extra tickets for his esteemed peers and colleagues, including Peggy Carter. Upon hearing this news Steve’s stomach does something strange, a happy, nervous backflip of sorts, a whole jazzercise routine.

Peggy Carter sits at her desk, beautiful and sharp as always, and inquires about Mississippi’s weather in June. She clicks and types at her computer, looking up plane tickets while they chat.

“And is that temperature...typical?” she asks, hiding her shock at a weekend forecast politely but not all that well.

“Yes,” Steve admits, feeling personally responsible that it will be 101 degrees and no doubt 102% humidity.

“Well, I’ll be sure to bring a sunhat then. Anything else I should be aware of?”

He should just tell her now. A tiny practice run. They’ve developed enough rapport over his year here. “I’m bringing my partner. I’d like for you to meet him.”

She smiles. A real knockout of a smile, bright red and beaming. “I’d love that.”

 

 

The event sells out ahead of time, raising a record breaking amount for the school system, which Steve finds out about in a Tweet and then from a phone call from Brandt and then from a call from Dum Dum. Word has it about half the tickets went to locals all over the state of Mississippi before someone on the internet bought the other half and starting reselling ‘em at about 100 times the price to curious rich people in Tony Stark’s circle of friends.

It’s illegal, scalping is, although Steve can’t help but enjoy the thought of swindling those assholes. Thousands of dollars for a night of fried food and trailer park paintings and possibly a proclamation of undying love or maybe even a brawl.

“It wasn’t you who bought ‘em up, was it?” he asks Dum Dum over the phone.

“Hell no, but I wish it was. They done raised the rent on my land again.”

“Those bastards. They pull that shit every year.”

“When you gettin’ here?”

“Day after tomorrow. Figured I’d come early so we can catch up. I got some stuff to tell you.”

“But you ain’t staying with me?”

“Uh, I got me one of those airbnbs,” Steve lies. “Since I’m bringing some friends with me. Too many to fit in your place. Don’t wanna crowd you—I know how you like your space.”

The truth is that he’s staying in the house he bought, just to check it out first, sign off on it before he gives it away. He’s glad he sprung for the one with extra bedrooms: Sam and Nat said they were coming to the show the moment they heard about it.

 

 

Bucky considers getting cold feet the morning of the flight. When he wakes, the sky looks strange and smoggy and pale, as unreal as ever, and he has trouble grounding himself, because reality is just too weird these days.

His name is Bucky and he’s returning to his place of origin with nothing to show for himself but the very thing they’d despise most in him. Once upon a time he was a well-to-do charmer, going places, the talk of the town—but in a good way. Steve used to joke he was like Cedric Diggory from Harry Potter: effortlessly popular, easily liked. Now he is hated by the very people who were supposed to love him the most.

“Earth to Barnes,” Natasha says, swinging a backpack over her shoulder. “The Uber is here.”

His heart rate skyrockets. She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s okay to have a panic attack, but you’re gonna do it in the car with us and not here all by yourself after we’ve left, okay?”

By the time he’s climbing into the car with Steve and Sam and Nat, the feeling has passed. By takeoff, he’s practically giddy, thinking about the freedom that comes with a ruined reputation.

 

 

They fly into Gulfport-Biloxi International and rent a car from there, or rather Bucky does because Steve is still too young.

“They’ll send guys my age off to Afghanistan but I can’t buy a beer or rent a car—it doesn’t make sense.”

Nat spots a confederate bumper sticker, the first of many, probably. “Few things in this country do.”

Sam clears his throat. “Have I mentioned I’ve never been to the south?”

Bucky drives them to the beach after hearing that, just a pit stop to show Sam the clearness of the water and the pristine sand. Gulf beaches are just better beaches in Steve’s opinion, if you can overlook the tattoo parlors and mini golf.

They all get out and stick their feet in the water. Bucky’s shoulders relax as soon as the waves touch his skin. He dunks his head in next, like some sort of baptism, and that’s when Steve realizes with a punch to his guilty gut just how much Bucky has missed it. How many times did they come to this shore together as kids, thinking the place you’re born is just the place you stay forever, not knowing they’d need to leave to find real freedom? They can’t come back here, not in the same way, not ever. They have both of them been changed.

But maybe someday, after school’s over, they’ll move to New Orleans or Savannah or Charleston, someplace enough like home to ease the ache in Buck’s bones but progressive enough to let him fully flourish. It’s possible. If Steve’s not dumb with his money they could have their own place soon enough, just the two of them, wherever the hell they want. He wants to give Bucky everything he needs and if that’s life on the east coast instead of the west, so be it. Steve might even prefer it himself.

They travel the familiar strip of road up to Brooklyn. Highway 49 looks and feels exactly the same and entirely different, especially with two new sets of eyes to see it all through. Sam and Nat ask questions, point to things, and Bucky seems more than happy to play hometown tour guide.

They stop by the realtor’s office to pick up a key from a middle aged woman with huge hair and even larger opinions about Steve’s art. (“I like some of it but I sure don’t like all of it!” “We need to support our President, not bully him.”) Luckily there aren’t all that many papers left to sign and they get out of there before he starts runnin’ his mouth.

Steve bought Dum Dum a fully furnished farmhouse instead of one of those colonial monstrosities. Those big ass Greco columns are unseemly to him. The house sits on a single acre of flat open land, so Dum can get those dogs he’s always wanted. There’s a big front porch facing a massive old oak tree, the kind he would’ve climbed as a kid and fallen out of.  

“It’s perfect,” Bucky says.

Steve fiddles with the key, opens the door. “We haven’t even been inside.”

Inside is pretty wonderful too: two bedrooms downstairs, which Sam and Nat claim, and then two upstairs, one of which Bucky and Steve will take, hopefully not just for the weekend but for any and all weekends they decide to visit. Winter breaks maybe. He can see the place all decked out for Christmas in his mind.

The kitchen is open yet cozy, and remodeled recently enough that the stainless appliances look downright high tech. Everything is all hardwood and soft rugs and natural colors, browns and tans and light blues.

He bought new glassware and dishes and all that as well, mason jars to drink out of and linen napkins for inevitable BBQ dinners. All in all it looks like a catalogue, yet not so fancy that Dum would feel uncomfortable. There are a few scuffs on the baseboards, a chip on the upstairs bathroom’s porcelain sink.

“Dum’s gonna love it,” Bucky says, hauling more of their stuff inside from the car.

“Sure hope so.”

Unless Dum Dum decides to never talk to Steve again after this weekend. He knows that Bucky’s been living with him out in LA, but certainly not that they share a bed. Such a small distinction with such large implications.

He pushes those nerves aside for now and turns down the central AC to an even cooler temperature, feeling downright decadent when he does. In the laundry room there’s a washer and dryer. No need for the laundromat anymore. The food pantry is the size of a bedroom and Steve will stock the whole thing.

He runs his hands across the smooth granite countertops. “You’re right, it’s perfect.”

Bucky comes up to hug him from behind. “Just one thing missing.”

He opens a box up and carefully unwraps one of Steve’s paintings from its plastic sheath and soft cocoon of glassine paper. It’s the one of De Soto National Forest: pine scrub and cypress knees and a nonchalant alligator. A perfect marshy scene. Dum Dum will like that one. Bucky takes down one of the pictures the decorator hung up and puts De Soto up instead.  “There.”

Sam comes over to look admiringly at the swamp art. After a beat he dryly says, “Is that where you two were born?”

Bucky shoves him for that. He falls onto the deep leather couch and looks quite happy to be there.

Nat comes out of her room wearing a sundress with a bathing suit on underneath. “So what do three queer kids and a black man do on a Friday night in rural Mississippi?”

“Stay inside,” Sam suggests, swatting at a mosquito that followed them in.

“Entertainment around here is mostly limited to a bowling alley, getting pregnant accidentally, or scoring meth,” Steve explains.  

“There’s a grill out back,” Bucky says, mostly to Steve. “We could go catch some fish and bring ‘em back.”

Sam is visibly disturbed. “Just...catch fish..and grill them?”

“We don’t got the right gear is the only problem,” Steve points out. Even if they could get their hands on a pole there’s the matter of cleaning them, which would stink up the house.  

“I can drop y’all off at the swimming hole,” Steve says, because it’s a good evening for that, “But I got an errand to run.”

 

 

Tires on gravel. Dust in the air. Vines that wrap around telephone poles like green gangly fingers. Steve knows every curve and bump on this unpaved road. The details come back to him like song lyrics learned in childhood.

What used to be his trailer, his childhood home, has a stranger’s car parked outside of it, a mini van with a busted window. There’s a tarp taped right on the hole. In the grass in front of the house are two toddler bikes, brightly colored like candy, and a kiddie pool half full of rainwater.

The family that moved in there is probably sitting down to supper right now. He hopes to God they have enough to eat.

He knocks on Dum’s hollow-sounding wood-composite door and is greeted immediately by the closest thing he’s ever had to a father.  

Steve’s real father was a truck driver only ever passing through, until Steve’s momma told him she was with child—he stopped passing through after that. Steve’s never bothered trying to find him. He might’ve had a family elsewhere he didn’t wanna hurt. Or he could be dead from opioids for all he knows, like so many men that age. Steve harbors no ill-will nor any childlike notions of a fateful reunion. Nature usually finds a way to make up for these types of losses and in his case it did.

Dum Dum hugs him real tight and picks him up a bit just to be an asshole. “You’re heavier!”

“Been eating real good.”

“C’mon in, c’mon in.”

Dum’s trailer looks suspiciously different. For one thing, it’s clean. For another, it’s decorated. There’s a tablecloth that isn’t plastic and vase on the table with some nice fake flowers. Steve gives Dum a sly look.

“Did you get yourself a girlfriend?”

Dum gets bashful. “Busted.”

Steve slaps him on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t wanna jinx it in case it didn’t work out. But I think it’s gonna.”

“Well I’ll be. She must be a real headcase if she’s dating you.”

“That she is, you’ll see. I’m bringing her tomorrow night to your show.”

Steve gulps down a spasm of nervousness. This would be a decent segway, a natural point to mention he is also dating someone and will be bringing them to the show. He drives past this exit and hopes they’ll be another down the road.

“I could use a beer,” Steve says.

“Don’t got any. Had my last drink two months ago. Been going to my meetings.”

“Aw, hell. I didn’t realize. I’m happy for you.”

They talk about all that for a while, about how his girlfriend demanded it and it was time anyhow. Dum Dum serves him up a bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream and they eat  comfortably in the living room on the couch instead of at the dinner table, as if no time has passed.

“I was a little worried you’d come back acting too good for this place,” Dum says. “But you’re still you even with the money.”

“I keep trying to get rid of it and more comes.”

“You bought a sports car yet?”

He can’t decide if he should tell him about the house first, or about Bucky. He tries not to think of the latter as bad news, because it’s not. Still, it’s tempting to lead with the gift and follow up with the potential disappointment. He knows Dum Dum won’t hit him, especially now that all the alcohol is long gone from his system. But sitting here now he’s not sure how it will go.

“No sports cars. But I did buy you a present.”

Dum Dum stops chewing and leans forward, all ears. “Golf clubs??”

Steve pulls the second house key out of his pocket and Dum’s eyes double in size.

“Got you a house across town.”

Dum sets his plate down on the carpet, eyes brimming with tears. He doesn’t say anything at first, his face flicking through emotions like flipping through TV channels: happy, sad, embarrassed, grateful, overwhelmed. Finally: “Is it—is it on the ground?”

“Concrete foundation and everything.”

He takes the key like it might be breakable. “I ain’t never had me a house on the ground.”

“Hey—me neither. You should see the place I’ve been living. Never would’ve made it there if it weren’t for you.”

Dum sniffs. “Wish your momma were here to see how good you turned out.”

Now Steve might cry. “I like to think she’s keeping tabs on me.”

“She’d be real proud. I’m real proud too.”

“Well don’t go bein’ too proud yet, I got some other news you may not like.”

Dum wipes his face with napkin. “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian now.”

“Oh, nothing _that_ bad.”

He can barely hear his own thoughts over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

“It’s just...me and Bucky. We’re together now.”

Dum seems unfazed, like he doesn’t get it. “And?”

“No, I mean we’re _together_ together.”

“Right, but what’s the news?”

He’s not getting it. How is he not getting it? “That _is_ the news.”

“Son, that’s not news to me. Me and your momma figured out you were playing for both teams by the time you hit fifth grade.”

So Steve’s the one who is not getting it. Figures. “ _Really?_ I didn’t even know then.”

“Yeah, and we kinda hoped it would stay that way—”

Oh.

“—Until you got old enough to handle it.”

Ooh.

He misses his mom so bad, his chest actually hurts. “So she knew? What did she say about it?”

“Just that she wished the world were a nicer place for you.”

“So...you don’t care?”

“I got a brother out in New Mexico who’s a tranny. Or she. See, I can’t keep track. You being a regular fag don’t seem all that big a deal in comparison.”

Steve winces internally at the words, because they’re the wrong ones, but he knows Dum is speaking out of ignorance and not hate.

“So she’s trans?”

“Yeah. Cut his dick off and everything. You still got your dick right?”

Steve picked the wrong moment to take a sip of tea. He chokes on it. “Yep. Definitely still there.”

“I hope that Barnes boy is treating you right, or he’s gonna have me to answer to.”

“Well, you can bring a shotgun and threaten him if you’d like. He’s staying in your house.”

 

Dum Dum cries some more when he sees the new place, just leans in the doorway and lets the tears fall, right in front of Nat and Sam and Bucky and that whole acre of green lush land.

They all stay up talking and laughing until it’s time for bed.

Bucky tosses and turns most of the the night, not out of fear or anxiety or bad dreams, but out of excitement. He’s kept the truth of himself locked up for so long, like fireflies in a jar. He’s ready to twist off the lid and watch them all spill out in a fit of buzzing and sparks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE IN THE ENDGAME NOW, Y'ALL
> 
> ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT. 
> 
> SOON.


	20. Chapter 20

“I may throw up,” Steve warns.

Bucky waves dismissively and starts driving. Details, details. “Do it out the window.”

“I’ll try.”

“You really that nervous?”

Steve fiddles with his tie. The seatbelt keeps messing with it. “Not about us. Not about that. Well—maybe a little. Mostly I’m worried about the _media._ ”

He reminds himself that if reporters show up, they’re only covering him because other people are. Clicks beget clicks. It’s not about good or bad or talent, it’s about the fact Tony Stark mentioned him on Twitter and then a bunch of other rich people got curious. Steve can deal with that. The attention might make him wealthier tonight. Not to mention it gives him a platform to say what he needs to say. Might as well make the most of it. He can do this.

He’s still got the jitters.

Everyone else is already at the venue. Natasha insisted that he be fashionably late, to give the public a chance to wonder where he is. It creates a sense of mystery and anticipation, she said. Steve hated the idea, but in the end he conceded to her judgement. She knows more about these sorts of things.

Steve had actually volunteered to help set up for the event, an act which the rec center staff thankfully attributed to Steve’s humility instead of his absolute mistrust of their ability to not spill coffee or grease on his artworks. But Brandt insisted that Steve let them do their jobs.

Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s thigh and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I really should’ve rented you a limo instead of a Camry.”

“I’d rather _walk_ to this thing than show up in a damn limo.”

“Gonna have to start getting used to this shit. Cause it’s probably not gonna stop. You gonna be okay if that happens?”

Steve turns up the AC, fighting off flop sweat. He doesn’t wanna stink up his brand new, tailor-made suit. “I’m more worried about _you._ ”

“Been through way worse. I’m fucking invincible now.”

“Shit, you’re right. You’re right. This is nothing. This is like Show and Tell at school with extra people watching. We’ve both seen worse. ”

“Speaking of worse. You think Rumlow will be there?”

“At an art show? Doesn’t really strike me as the type.”

“If I see that dude’s face, I’m punching it. I should’ve done it a long time ago. I almost did so many times.”

“It’s really not worth the jail time.”

“He almost killed you once. _Killed_.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Just let me do _something_ if he shows.”

Steve still has dreams about it sometimes, about being a kid underwater with no air and no more strength to swim. He’ll kick his legs but the water will be thick like mud and he’ll sink and sink until Bucky saves him again. Occasionally the dream will take a weird turn: once he sprouted gills and fins and just stayed down there happily, an aquatic animal. Once the person to pull him out was himself, but older. When Bucky was gone from his life, off being a missionary, the dream would end with Steve surrendering to his death. He’d wake up having an asthma attack.

He hasn’t woken up like that in a long time.

This morning he got up early to take a shower and as soon as he got back to the room, a very naked Bucky threw him on the bed and knocked his knees apart and climbed on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress with all that glorious muscular weight. Bucky used one arm to support himself over him and the other free hand to stroke them off together. They came at the same time, which is not a thing that’s supposed to happen in real life, but it did.

It may have been the best moment of Steve’s life. Or at least the best moment until the next time they do it. Hopefully that’ll be later tonight—if they can make it through this thing alive.

The parking lot is a circus: there are no spaces left, not one. They really didn’t think the whole fashionably late thing through. Steve sees what might be a reporter outside the door.

“I can drop you off and go park…” Bucky says.  

“You're not my chauffeur. Not walking in there without you.”

They circle near the door and some gangly kid walks over and informs that him he’s their vallet. Brandt likely put him up to it. He might even be Brandt’s kid. Either that or he’s trying to steal the car. Seeing as they sprung for the good rental insurance, they roll with it, hopping out and handing over the keys.

Bucky plants a quick kiss on Steve’s forehead. “We got this.”

“You know what? We do.”

Hand-in-hand, they head toward the entrance and are hit with a barrage of conversation-noise and camera clicks.

  
  
  
  


They look so fucking cute together, holding hands like that: that’s the first thing Natasha thinks. They look like a power couple in front of all these small town newspaper reporters.

Steve’s suit actually fits him, so he looks his age instead of twelve—always a good thing, to not look twelve. And Bucky, wow—he’s standing up so tall, with his shoulders back, schmoozing even, smiling for the camera. It’s hard for Nat to believe that’s the same guy who used to hide in his room and barely make eye contact for weeks on end. She’s done good work.

She can’t take all the credit for his recovery, but she can certainly take _some._ She doesn't resent the amount of emotional labor she’s performed, because at least they’re thankful for it. Her help was never demanded and always appreciated. As a feminist she keeps track of this, the way women tend to do more than they should, but as a friend, roommate, and fellow recovering Evangelical? It was the least she could do. Perhaps someday they’ll find a way to pay her back—not that they need to—not that she’s just in it for the rewards.

She’s a little drunk.

She knew the event would be dry as Ezekiel's bones, because small towns like this don’t believe in serving booze and it would’ve probably made them go over budget anyway. Some places in the South don’t even let you buy alcohol on Sundays, or at least not until after noon. But today is Saturday, so she went and bought sweet red wine and filled a stainless steel Nalgene water bottle with it. Water into wine! The water bottle is almost empty. She can’t be the only one in this building to think of this.

Apparently Brooklyn’s recreation center used to a be clock factory: sterile and far too large to be a real gallery. But it’s amazing what a little indirect lighting and curtains can do to a place. It looks less like a factory and more like a bargain wedding reception venue. The socialites, who did indeed show up, seem to find it quaint. Poverty is simply _fascinating_ to them. They won’t stop talking to Steve and Bucky. Those two look like pros. They look like they’ve done this a hundred times. Maybe they’re also drunk.

God, they look so good—Bucky especially, so protective and proud of Steve. That dark hair and the shockingly blue eyes and the chiseled jawline.

She wants to have his babies.

No, not like that.

She gets all sorts of crazy ideas when she’s drunk—like ideas about how Bucky can repay her someday. Repay her for helping him in his hour of gay need. When Natasha is older and married and when Steve and Bucky are older and married, maybe Bucky can let her borrow some sperm and they can make gorgeous kids and share them. No sex, just sperm, thank you very much. It would be fun, parenting all together, if parenting is what Steve and Bucky decide they want to do—it’s hard to know at this point, what you might want five to ten years from now. Right now her body still belongs to ballet but she might want kids someday: gorgeous, Bucky-faced kids. She used to have the same thoughts about Sam but Sam’s going to get married to a woman someday and they’ll be able to just pop kids out “of their own” as they please. She’s not bitter about this, it’s just that she won’t have the same luxury with her future wife exactly, nor will Steve and Bucky. The Rogerses? Would they go by Barnes? Barnes-Rogers. Steve can’t get rid of Rogers now that he’s famous for it. Bargers. Rornes. She just wants to be part of a family again. But this time: a good one.

She needs to find a girlfriend first. Well, _need_ isn’t accurate. She does just fine on her own and it’s better to be single than with the wrong person, mark her words. But seeing Steve and Bucky? It does give her a little bit of extra hope that love is out there.

She got a phone number in the airport from a hot Marine named Maria Hill who lives in D.C. What’s a little long distance? When she is not as drunk she will text Maria something flirtatious, like that Maria is just her type. And she so was: dark hair, shockingly blue eyes, chiseled jawline. She was built like a goddess except fitter and mean. They had one brief conversation in line for coffee but if they’d had more time...if they’d been on the same flight...Natasha would have tried to join the mile high club with her.

Because she does things like that now and feels no shame in it. What a difference  a handful of years can make. Being around all these small town Christians is strange. The accents, the jargon, the whispers. She used to be one of them and now she dreams about going down on female Marines in airplane bathrooms. She might sext that Marine tonight. She might fall in love with her.

She has lived so many lives since the fateful day she decided to stuff her purse with offering plate money and make a run for it. She’s never looked back.

The view in front of her is just too good.

  
  
  
  
  


Mayor Brandt blinks and blinks, thinkin’ maybe he’s imagining what he’s seeing. But he wouldn’t imagine that, that’s not something he would imagine, never, nope. God as his witness.

He prepared himself for a lot of worst case scenarios, but this one wasn’t on the list. He’d sure rather the building catch on fire or get invaded by ants than see this in front of him with his own two eyes. The swanky folks from out of town won’t care, but he’s got his city to be thinkin’ about. He’s gonna get so many complaints afterward. People might be polite right now, southern manners and all that, but he’ll never hear the end of this. This might cost him a reelection. Plus there’s all these iPhones and cameras around so he can’t raise a fuss without lookin’ like the bad guy. Damn if this wasn’t a trap.

He should have seen it coming. He did think it mighty odd how many of the paintings are of George Barnes’ kid. Last he heard James was off doing mission work. He thought maybe the art was made to celebrate a missionary. A good Christian thing, mission work is, and artists do paint saints and ministers and all that. That’s how his mind done explained the paintings to him before this moment. He never saw this coming but he shoulda.

Look, he ain’t a bigot like those Westboro folks. What people do in the privacy of their homes is their own business and they can take that up with God almighty on their own time. But to flaunt it around in front of people is just plain wrong. Good Lord—they’re glued to each other _._ There are children in here watching. Did they ever think of that?

  
  
  
  


Bucky sees her out of the corner of his eye, hiding in the back, wearing her Sunday best. She’s not supposed to be here. There’s no way she was allowed to come. Her posture makes her seem even smaller than she already is. His baby sister. He used to pull her around in a Radio Flyer wagon and now she’s fifteen years old.

Is she trying to hide from him? Or from the people who might see her and mention it to her parents later in passing?  

Steve just started talking to someone from _ARTnews Magazine_. He doesn’t wanna leave his side—but Becca might slip out the back and he has no idea when he’ll see her again. He’s overwhelmed.

“Excuse me,” he says. Steve’s eyes ask a lot of questions. “I’ll be right back,” is the only one Bucky can answer at the moment.

  
  
  
  


Sam sees Bucky slip away from Steve and head toward the back with an anguished look on his face. “We might have a code blue.”

Natasha whips around and squints. She’s very drunk. He’s had a few sips from her stash too, but not enough to impair him at all. He could still drive if he needed to help anybody with a quick getaway. That’s code green. They have whole system worked out.

Code red means there’s a high chance of physical violence. Code blue is an emotional breakdown. Code gold means a hot celebrity is here.

“I think he’s okay,” Nat assesses. “He’s—he’s come a long way.”

True, he has—from their conversation-less jogs to Sam giving him art supplies to play with (Sam is an art therapy major now, after all) to running off at Easter, Bucky is a different person than he was six months ago.

Bucky appears to be talking to a kid in the back. He doesn’t seem so anguished anymore. Okay, they’re hugging, whew. That must be his sister. Maybe he really is okay.

Now Steve’s with them and they’re crying. It looks like the good kind of cry: a reunion. Sam takes another sip of Nat’s drink in celebration. He’s probably not going to have to rescue anybody tonight after all.

  
  
  
  


Dum Dum is a lousy son of a bitch who can’t get nowhere on time. He can’t even blame it on his lady friend for changing her outfit six damn times—it was still him who made them late. But it’s alright, she loves him for him and it’s a good thing too. He had to park his truck way down across the road and she’s already sweatin’ in those heels of hers from all the walking.

He went ahead and told her about Steve and his beau. She don’t care. She’s been a hairdresser her whole life. She ain’t bothered. Specially not since Steve bought her a house. He asked her to move in and she said she was planning on moving in even if he didn’t ask her. What a nut.

They’re about to walk into the rec center when Dum Dum spots Brock Rumlow being escorted out of the building by security.

“No ticket, no entrance,” one of the guards said.

He looks apoplectic and blotchy. Drunk as a skunk. “I had one, I _know_ I did—it was—it’s in there somewhere.”

“Sorry, son. If you give us more trouble we’ll throw your ass in a jail for the night.”

Rumlow shakes off their grip on his arms. “Whatever. This thing’s stupid anyway. Stupid fag convention.”

“Convention, huh,” Dum Dum says, because he can’t help himself. “That why you wanna go so bad?”

Tabitha Mae rolls those dark brown eyes of hers at Brock and tugs Dum toward the door. “Ain’t standing out in this heat to watch a fight. Unless I’m allowed to join in.”

Brock still hasn’t thought of a comeback for Dum. He opens his mouth wide like a trout, staggers back, and then storms off down the road with his shoulders slumped, defeated.

Dum offers Tabitha his arm. She hooks hers with his and they head inside snickering.

  
  
  
  


“Did you expect all this when you found him?” Peggy asks Dr. Erskine. They’re sitting at one of the tables due to Abraham’s fatigue. He smiles through it. “Certainly not.”

“I suppose there is no anticipating this, is there?”

She’s chatted with a chicken farmer and one of Oprah’s art dealers in the same night in the same place. Steve was and is truly unprecedented.

“He seems to be taking it well,” Abraham says fondly. She looks over at him. He and his partner—who she just met, just lovely—are talking intently and brightly with what appears to be the building’s janitor.

“Well, that I did expect. I supposed that’s why you chose him.”

“Look out for him, won’t you?”

She rests her hand on his. He hasn’t told any of his students about his retirement. He says he felt it was time to move on. Time for him to step down and for Peggy to step up. She wonders if there’s something he’s not telling her. But for now she’s just happy to have him here: her very best friend, the both of them so married to their work that friendship is all they have room for in their lives. Friendship and their students. “You know I will.”

  
  
  


Mayor Brandt is resigned to just smile and nod. Key word bein’ _resign_. Smile and nod, yes siree, whether it’s to a magazine writer or a visitor from New York City or a local. There’s nothing he can do at this point.

A woman from the Rotary Club strides up to him. “I taught that Barnes boy in Sunday school.”

He smiles. He nods.

“I thought he was a good Christian boy.”

He nods. He can’t quite manage to smile. This woman will probably not vote for him again. She stalks off and Steve approaches him.

“I’d like to say a few words. Like we talked about.”

He really doesn’t want to give Steve a mic. But he smiles and nods.

  
  
  
  


“Evenin’ everybody,” Steve says. There’s a little feedback buzz and then he keeps going. “I’m Steve Rogers—well, I guess you knew that part. I just wanna thank y’all for being here tonight—whether you’re from out of town or from right here in Brooklyn. Y’all helped raise a lot of money for the schools by coming. So thanks for that. Let’s just hope that money goes toward teacher bonuses or arts programs instead of football, huh?”

Bucky, standing toward the back, covers his mouth with his hand to stifle his own laugh. This guy. Can’t even get through two seconds without poppin’ off. No wonder he got hit so much. It’s quiet. But then Sam starts clapping and so does everyone else. Bucky looks around and notices that people are live streaming this right to Facebook and Instagram and lord knows what else. Sam claps louder.

“Another person I want to thank is Tony Stark. I’m sure he’s an asshole, but he did give me the biggest paycheck of my life—so thanks Tony, if you’re watching out there. You and your buddies could solve world hunger about three times over but we don’t need to get into that tonight, right?”

There’s more applause. Becca tugs on Bucky’s elbow. “I thought he was gonna talk about you and him?”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s Steve. He’s gonna run his mouth about _everything_.”

Steve had gotten gradually more worked up over the course of the night, Bucky’d noticed. Something about the contrast of the attendees’ lives and livelihoods, the comments people made. Plus the memories flooding back, the good and the bad. Steve has been itching to tell this whole town off for most of his life.  Or maybe he’s been itching to save it. Either way he’s got that _look_. That angry angel look. Holy and heated.

“Sorry, Tony. Sorry. I can get a little pissed off about stuff like that. See, I grew up poor just like most folks in Brooklyn grew up. Hey—do me a favor—clap if you’re from Brooklyn—”

The Brooklynites make some noise. Becca makes a little whoop sound.

“Thanks. Thank you. It’s an honor to be from here, it really is. I love Brooklyn with my whole heart, although it’s complicated. I think that tension is really my inspiration, it’s where my art comes from—which maybe you noticed. I hope you’ve gotten a chance to really look around at everything tonight, all my work. Brooklyn is a beautiful place, but it’s a tough place to live too. I was really struggling here until I got the opportunity to attend Erskine Institute of the Arts.

“You may have heard that story already—I’ve been telling it a lot these days. Still seems weird that people wanna listen to it. But I want to thank Dr. Abraham Erskine for taking a chance on me—I can see him, he’s over there in the back. I was just trying to pull a scam on the good people of New Orleans when he offered me a scholarship. And I wouldn’t have even had the gas money to get to New Orleans in the first place, if it hadn’t been for my good pal Timothy Dugan.”

Dugan waves to everybody like he’s goddamn Miss America.

“My point is I didn’t get here by myself. A lot of people—a lot of people in the south ‘specially—we grow up hearin’ that all we gotta do is pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. We group up hearin’ that if we just work hard enough someday we’ll get the good life. Well, I hate to break it to y’all, but that’s a bullshit story. It’s a lie the richest of the rich cooked up just to keep us slaving away our whole lives. My momma told me the truth of that, God rest her. I think she was right. I’d still be working at the hardware store if all this crazy shit hadn’t happened.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with working at a hardware store, neither. But I coulda worked my whole damn life there and never made enough to buy a real house, or even just a car that wasn’t always breakin’ down. The whole thing is rigged. They’ve tricked you. Well, most of you. Y’all gotta stop voting against your own selves. Stop putting jokers like Trump in office. He don’t care about you. He don’t give a shit. That man’s never put in a real day of work in his life. And the worst part is they convinced us to blame each other—to fight each other, white people versus black people, white people versus brown—because they know if we point fingers at each other we won’t be looking at them. They’re sitting on piles of gold and they want us to spend our lives in a death match for a couple damn cents.”

The catering staff actually stand up to clap at this point and Bucky, well—he has to hand it to Steve. He knows how to work a room better than Bucky expected. Were his tolerance for bullshit a little higher, he might could run for office.

“Sorry, I just get so worked up—but I guess I can let the art speak for itself, because all that frustration is in there. I spent a lot of time growing up in Brooklyn frustrated. Frustrated by my health, by poverty, and maybe most of all, frustrated that I couldn’t be with the person I loved most.”

Oh, _here_ we go.

“You’ll probably notice a lot of my work has one particular subject—James Barnes. James literally saved my life as a kid. We were best friends from then on. And...and then at some point we fell in love. Of course, we didn’t know how to handle it. Felt like something was wrong with us. But there wasn’t. There isn’t. Despite what the churches in town might teach.

“Religion made things harder for us, instead of giving us hope. That's not how it's supposed to be. We weren’t able to love each other the way we wanted to here. It was only after we left that we finally could. We lost a lot of time. And hell, we could have lost each other entirely if we hadn’t gotten out of here. Which is damn shame. Nobody should miss out on the love of their lives because of their zip code.

"So I wanted us to officially come out today, hoping that doing so makes this city just a little safer for people like me. They said they wanted to _celebrate_ me tonight, and I’m bisexual, so. I like to think of this as Brooklyn’s first LGBTQ pride event. I sure hope there are more in the future. Thanks again for coming. Thank you. And uh, God bless America.”

There’s dead silence—not necessarily in a bad way. It’s like they wanted him to keep talking. Rapt attention. There’s a reporter crying quietly to his left. Now people clap, some vigorously, but not everybody—some people look like they just swallowed lemons. Sour as all get out. It’s a total mixed bag. It’s fucking hilarious. Nat’s got mascara running down her face. Bucky’s hands are tingling.

Steve walks away from the podium, but then rushes back—

“Oh, one more thing. Any journalists out there wanna do me a favor? There’s a pastor named Alexander Pierce. He runs a ministry in Texas called Teen Mania. It’s really—well, it’s really an abusive cult. If you could investigate it and help me shut it down, that’d be _great.”_

Steve steps down from the podium again and heads straight for the back of the room. His mouth collides with Bucky’s so hard it’s practically a punch. A delicious punch to the face: Steve in a nutshell.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


They make a run for it.

Thank God for Nat and Sam and Dr. Margaret Carter. After Steve makes sure his art is under their protection and that nobody’s gonna burn it in a big pile like Bucky’s youth group used to burn Harry Potter books, he and Bucky make a break for it, fleeing the building with Becca in tow.

Although it’s out of the frying pan and into the fire: they still need to take Becca home.

“Dad keeps texting me,” she says anxiously. “He knows I snuck out.”

They probably saw her on some livestream by now. She’ll probably be grounded all summer.

“I just don’t see why she can’t come with us,” Steve says quietly from the driver’s seat.

“Because we’d go to jail for kidnapping,” Bucky says. “You know that’s what would happen, right?

“Not necessarily. Not if—what about child services?”

“You know way better than I do that child services doesn’t do shit. Besides, my parents are crazy, but it’s not in the way that gets kids taken away.”

“Unfortunately,” Becca says from the backseat.

“It’s like we talked about,” Bucky says to her, “Three more years. You keep your head down, you do what you can, and then when you turn eighteen you can do whatever you want.”

“There’s always emancipation,” Steve suggests. He’s still buzzing from tonight. He’s still on fire. Bucky gives him the side-eye: don’t give her any ideas.

“Wouldn’t work, Becks,” he says. “Nice middle-class Christian family—no judge around here is gonna side with you. I’m sorry. This is just how it’s gonna be for a little while.”

She starts sniffing in the back seat. Bucky reaches his hand back and lets her hold it. Steve wants to turn around and drive somewhere else entirely, Back to Dum Dum’s new place or beyond. But the Barnes’ house is coming up on the left, just around the bend in the sidewalk. This neighbood is one of the few in Brooklyn to even have sidewalks.

“Just don’t get married until I can come to the wedding.”

“Deal,” Bucky says reassuringly. “You’re maid of honor. We’ll wait till then.”

Steve’s heart speeds up. Bucky wasn’t joking.

He pulls into the paved driveway, just like he’s done so many times before, picking up Bucky to go fish or watch a baseball game. This house holds memories too, although many of them are just the image of Bucky walking away from it, towards him. Bucky’s Ma was finicky about having guests over, or so it was said. It may have been specific to Steve, or maybe all Catholics.

George Barnes walks out the front door and stands there, arms crossed: a looming figure, tall and broad, like a football player who quit long ago and let himself go a little. Which is exactly what George Barnes did.

“Stay in the car, Steve,” Bucky says, just before getting out with Becca. The way he said it was final. Steve wants to argue but thinks better of it. Bucky may be the only person he’ll take orders from, when it really comes down to it.

“Go on inside the house, Rebecca,” their father commands. She gives Bucky a last look, a last hug. She gives Steve, who’s hanging out the driver’s side window, a final wave.

“See you at the wedding,” she calls out to him, brazen as all get out. Steve’s amazed by her boldness. George is unamused, to say the least.

He and Bucky say a few words, but Steve can’t hear them over the sound of the engine. George has been known to lose his temper but he isn’t gonna tonight, by the looks of it. His words are more of a quiet snarl and a gnashing of teeth.

In what seems to be the middle of the conversation, Bucky turns around curtly and heads back toward the car. He slides in and says nothing and Steve pulls out of the driveway quickly, knowing by that blank look that it must’ve been bad.

Steve’s not sure where he should drive. All his triumph from tonight starts leaking out like air from a tire. “Talk to me, Buck.”

“Take me to the creek,” is all he says.

  
  
  
  


The sun’s dipping low in the sky, almost gone, almost faded, casting the whole world in dusky blue. The cicadas and frogs are singing’ out in honor of the occasion, sultry as a jazz band and loud as one too. Spanish moss drifts in the much-needed breeze.

Bucky peels off his socks and rolls up his pants and wades into the creek up to his calves, with Steve following suit.

He listens. Just listens.

He remembers.

He remembers how Steve had sat straight up with a large gasp for air, when he’d finally found consciousness again on this shore. Their faces had been _embarrassingly_ close to each other’s and Bucky had scurried backwards in the mud immediately to put in a little more distance between them. That tiny distanced followed them.

“Do you remember what you said when I first pulled you out of the water?”

Steve thinks on it, swirls his foot the water. “Don’t think I do.”

“You said, _I ain’t a bad swimmer, they just caught me on a bad day._ ”

“Shit. Such a bad liar. I think I was trying to impress you.”

“Even then?”

“Maybe. Didn’t have a crush yet, I just wanted you to like me. You were one of the cool kids. When you started wanting to hang out with me I thought it was some kinda prank.”

“I didn’t feel cool.”

“Oh, you were. Everybody knew that.”

“I was so scared of myself, even then. I always knew I was different. Then I met you and I finally understood why.”

“Right away?”

“Just about.”

“Geez, you figured it out so much faster than I did.”

“Well, that’s because I’m smarter than you.”

Steve kicks out and splashes him him in retaliation. 

“So you gonna tell me what your dad said or are we just here to reminisce? I’m okay either way, just wondering.”

Bucky stares down at the water’s flow, the droplets spattering. His body, which is made of water, is in Cypress Creek, which connects to Black Creek, which stretches all the way to the Pascagoula River. That river feeds right into the Gulf of Mexico. He is connected to the whole world and always has been, even when he felt alone.

He has no emotion when he says it: “My dad said he’s only got two sons now. He said I’m dead to him after tonight.”

Steve goes from hesitantly calm to looking like he wants to break shit in about five seconds, as expected. “ _Jesus_ , that’s—what the _fuck_. What’d you say back?”  

Part of him still doesn’t want to tell Steve, wants to keep up one last wall. It’s that tiny distance on lingering on. It’s followed them all the way back here.

“I told him he almost got his wish. Because I almost. You know. Ended it. Back in Texas.”

Steve doesn’t want to break shit anymore. He’s been broken. “You did?”

“I was thinking about it. Wanted to. But then you came and got me.”

The timing still bothers him. Some might say it was divine timing or providence, which he now loathes as a concept. It’s like the way people talked growing up after big hurricanes, yammering on about how God saved them from the storm. But if that’s true, why didn’t he save the other poor assholes who didn’t make it? Did they not deserve it? Or better yet: why not just prevent the storm from happening in the first place? If Bucky lets himself believe that God sent Steve to save him, he’s gotta reconcile that notion with the fact plenty of other young, hurting people didn’t get the same gift. He’s no better than them. And he’s no worse either—he believes that now, deep in his bones. His survival was not because of divine favor nor was his predicament and pain a sign of divine hatred.

He will never know exactly why he was spared just in the nick of time, only that he _was_.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Steve chokes out.  

“Me too. That’s what I told my dad. He almost got his wish, but he didn’t, and he _won’t_. Because I’ve got too much living to do now and I ain’t scared of it. I’ve got so much living to do with you.”

He moves closer, and then Steve’s reaching out to hold him, and they are home.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for coming on this journey with me! Your comments along the way have helped SO MUCH. I know this is a strange premise, so extra thanks for taking a chance on something faaaar away from the normal Steve/Bucky universe. HAPPY PRIDE MONTH. <3


End file.
